


In Fine Spirits

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bartender - Freeform, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Young Mystrade, but definitely first formal introduction, mystrade, not quite first meeting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 57,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25789360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: A very upscale bar/private club needs a bartender and scruffy, punky Greg Lestrade is certain he has the right skills (and needs the job), so walks in to apply in person.  He didn't realize that someone else he knew works there, also.  Though... 'knew' probably isn't the proper term for a one-night stand where you didn't even learn their name during the fun...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 434
Kudos: 301





	1. Chapter 1

“Just give me a chance.”

Greg tried to keep a pleading tone out of his voice because he was positive it would undercut his position even further, but he really did want… and need… this job. At least he’d been able to convince the chap at the door to go and bring out whoever was in charge, which turned out to be a tall man who presented exactly as Greg expected – sophisticated, aloof, in his 40’s most likely, had that aristocratic handsome look that placed him as belonging here, even if he was only an employee.

“You’re… not really right for the position.”

Greg had to admit it seemed that way, as he looked about the elegant, high end bar that abutted the elegant, high end club where he could smell the money and power as clearly as he could the chair leather and old wood paneling, but him looking like something the cat dragged onto the rug didn’t mean he couldn’t do the job. And the cat wouldn’t want him anyway once he actually tidied up and donned what had to be an official uniform for bartenders and servers in a place like his. Those always looked smart and did a lot to camouflage the person wearing them. Who might not precisely be described as smart-looking when he wasn’t on the premises.

“I know I seem a bit rough at the moment but that’s because I’m just come from my other job at the off-license. That’s how I heard you need someone. Word gets about and this is a job I can do better than anybody.”

Fine, look skeptical. I can’t blame you, but it still stings.

“You’ve tended bar before?”

“Since I was twelve! Not legal and proper, I know, but my parents…”

Don’t fucking sigh at me, you wanker, even if you do it like someone from an old black and white film.

“Own a pub and you pulled pints after school. Yes, well…”

“Wrong. They work at a hotel. Nice seaside one that gets loads of tourists. Rich ones. English, American, people coming from all over Europe. Even Asia! My father manages the bar and my mum is one of the cooks. Yeah, I can pull pints. I can also mix cocktails, recommend wines or fine spirits… that’s some of what I do at my day job. Mind the till, sure, but work with customers and our buyers to get what they want. Chap comes in wanting champagne to celebrate something and I can see him straight with a good bottle for what he can pay so he has a nice time AND comes back to us for his next purchase because he was treated well and fairly on his first visit.”

Greg stared hard at the manager and saw just a flicker of interest in his eyes, though if it was the man considering hiring him or just being curious about how a scruffy punk who roared up on a motorcycle could do a fraction of what he claimed he had no idea. Time to find out.

“I’ll give you a demonstration, what say?”

Vaulting over the ornate, highly-polished bar with an ease born of many shifts at clubs where he was usually launching in the reverse direction to put the hurt on some idiots for whom the fine line between thrashing to the music and pounding each other senseless had become hopelessly blurred, Greg took a quick look around and under the bar top to locate the tools and supplies needed to do his job before smiling genially but sedately and speaking to his ‘customer.’

“May I help you, sir?”

The manager scowled at the theatrics, but had to admit the lad had determination and had looked in all the right places to set himself up at his station.

“Alright. G&T.”

“Any specific brand, sir?”

Asked the right question and keeping it polite. More grudging points scored.

“Something good, but I’m not terribly picky.”

Completely unhelpful, so have at it, Graham. Greg. Greg Lestrade. Your cousin is Graham, idiot. Graham, that is, not me. Dear god but the man is lacking in wits. Not something… perhaps… he could say about this applicant.

Greg smiled and nodded, setting to work, pulling out a chilled highball glass, filling it with ice cubes, adding gin and one squeezed lime wedge, then opening a fresh bottle of tonic to pour slowly down a bar spoon before giving it all a gentle stir and topping with a lime wedge. Pop in a stirrer and set on a coaster pulled from the stack. So far… well, so far so very good.

“Here you are, sir. Enjoy.”

Greg stepped back and hoped his nervousness didn’t show on his face. He’d done well, though. The number of gin and tonics he’d made, along with what seemed like countless variations was… well, countless! Oh yes, take that sip and be very fucking honest that that’s a quality drink.

The manager took his first drink, thought a moment, then took a second, longer one because he really did enjoy a properly made G&T in the afternoon.

“Why this gin?”

“People who know their gin, or just what they like, will tell you specifically what they want. People who genuinely don’t care will just tell you ‘whatever’s handy’ or ‘doesn’t matter.’ In between are the people who do care, but either can’t or don’t want to pay for top shelf. That seemed right here, so I chose a solid brand with good aromatics, but not too harsh, so one squeeze of lime was more than enough to smooth out the edges and liven it up to something properly flavorful and refreshing.”

And thank you, Greg, for answering my question about the lime, too.

“Ok. Your technique was good, I’ll say that much. This is a drink I’d be satisfied to see a customer served.”

“Thanks!”

“But…”

Shit.

“This is also one of the most common drinks we _do_ serve. True, that means they need to be good since it’s a reliable sale, but we see a surprising amount of variation with this clientele.”

“Not a problem. I can do the very solid and traditional, variations on them, and what’s a bit more exotic. Or what’s gone out of fashion. They come back now and again because this or that film opened, so it pays to be prepared.”

Point to you, Greggy. If it’s out of fashion, it’s probably a solid seller here, given a notable fraction of the guests are as ancient as Methuselah. Not the majority, but enough elder statesmen that something they remember from the Cold War happily graces their hand when they’re boring everyone in a 10-meter radius with stories _about_ the Cold War.

“Have a table order, then. Vodka martini, Sidecar, Mojito, pint of stout, a single malt whisky… best you’ve got… and something non-alcoholic for my companion here. Your choice of brands for the rest.”

Putting an arm around the empty chair next to him and grinning widely was a bit snarky, but so was the order. Check the lad’s bar skills and memory at the same time. Though, to be fair, memory was one of the most important bar skills one could have.

“Absolutely, sir.”

You utter bastard. Though, it’s a fair test for a job like this and nothing like what my dad used to toss at me. Table of a dozen or so tourists straight off some tour bus where they’ve already had a few and are feeling adventurous. Best get the stout started then work on the rest.

Starting with the stout… good. And… oh, he’s looking about. Probably for a top single malt. Why’s he crouching? Oh dear god… that Macallan is near £1200 a bottle. He’s grinning. And looking back down. Little bastard deciding if he should pull out one that’s even more expensive. Fine, you young puppy. Laugh at the man having a heart attack because your hand is on something you _know_ is giving me a heart attack and because your bloody motorcycle isn’t worth it’s price or even approaching what some of those in the special selections cost. But… nod to you for knowing the good stuff. And pouring a properly-sized serving with a bit of spring water on the side. Check the stout, ok. Mojito… looking for the mint. Fair, it’s not something we use often so it’s not right at the fingertips. Still quick, though, give you that. Get the martini and Sidecar going and… nicely done. Moving on to… orange and pineapple juice, bit of orgeat and simple syrup, few squeezes of lime, float of grenadine, hearty splash of soda… ok. Sweet, sour, not a simple thing because the one in the group abstaining is worth less attention than the others… good. Finish off the stout and load up the tray. Or, in this case, put each out in front of me for inspection.

“There you are, sir. Can I get you anything else?”

Cheeky bastard. But professional in other circumstances. Let’s mark the work.

“Pint looks good. Proper head on it. I’ll save the whisky for later, but you knew a good one when you saw it and served it properly. Drop the bottle, though, and I’d charge you double for the material loss _and_ the insult to a distiller’s work of art. Martini… good. I prefer it a bit drier, but that’s a personal preference and this is a suitable ratio if a customer doesn’t specify otherwise. Sidecar… nice. Mid-range cognac… no sugar rim?”

“No. Doesn’t enhance the drink and… it’s just a shit look for a classic drink.”

On that, we agree.

“Fair enough. Mojito… muddle the mint just a hair more next time, but most wouldn’t notice enough to call it out. And, our final selection… very tropical. Not everyone would want something like this. Why did you make it?”

Greg credited the man for pressing him on things like this because you didn’t make it behind a bar if you didn’t have the right instincts about people, a good memory and noticed details that helped you give the customer what they wanted. In a shit bar, you could get away with it longer, but you wouldn’t last a night in a place like this if you didn’t have the proper skills going into the job.

“You said a table order which, given the tables in here are small and not set up for a group that size, I’d assume a member of the waitstaff would bring it to me and they would already have asked about tea, coffee, fizzy drinks, juice or offered one of those non-alcoholic wines or beers. That would have been sorted before it got to me, so I ruled them out. And…”

“Yes?”

“You put your arm around the chair. That usually means a woman was your companion and…”

“I could be gay.”

“Trrrrrruuue… but, first, I haven’t heard this is a gay bar or club and… even though it’s a lot more common and accepted now… a lot of gay men I know aren’t often comfortable enough to do something like that to their partner while out in public. If I’d known for certain, I would have made something not quite as tiki bar appropriate, but I went with the odds.”

“Men can’t enjoy tropical drinks?”

“Weeelllllll…. yes. They can. But I don’t know any who would order one at a place like this when everyone else was getting standard drinks. If this was a theme bar or everyone was having something exotic, it’d be a different story, but it doesn’t fit, at least to me, that your male partner would want something like this and a server who knew their job would have said something to the bartender so they didn’t look a fool or embarrass the patron. If the patron didn’t specify what they wanted straight off, that is.”

“Interesting… not all women want a fruity drink, though.”

“Yeeaaaaahhhhhhh, but… ok, first you put your arm around the chair and grinned. A certain grin.”

Good catch, Greg. Not everyone would have picked up on that.

“Something wrong with a grin and an arm?”

“If you were a regular, I’d know better, but men who do that… often, their birds could use something a little special. A bit of extra fuss made and something that’s cheery and bright. Also, this is the sort of drink people expect when they ask for something non-alcoholic, but don’t specify their preference. In front of a woman, even if this wasn’t what they had in mind, it wouldn’t look out of place or strange and they could always send it back for something simpler. It’s a safe pick for a female guest and it’d be on me to remember if they did send it back and wanted a little seltzer and lemon, instead.”

Greg stood there while he was regarded with narrowed, icy-blue eyes for a very long moment. He continued to stand there as the over £200-a-glass whisky was pushed with a single long finger back across the bar towards him.

“Here. From this moment forward, however, if I catch you drinking on the job, even once, it’s an immediate sacking. Exceptions are made for certain occasions but even if a guest wants to buy you a drink, pour something non-alcoholic for yourself and have that instead, even if they don’t know the difference. Understand?”

Greg knew his brain let him down on occasion, so he hoped beyond hope that he knew the correct answer to that question.

“Yes, sir. When do you want me to start?”

“I’ve got tonight covered, but it’ll be a good time for you to see how we do things, ask questions, meet staff, so we’ll say tonight and I’ll pay you for it, but your first official shift would be tomorrow evening. Does that work for you?”

Even if it didn’t, Greg would have made certain it did. He’d heard the wages here were excellent since they had very high standards and expected a great deal of their people. Those excellent wages were far more useful than a night out with his mates. Far more useful than most of his actual mates, too.

“Yes, sir. It works well. Thank you.”

“Good, then… ah! There’s a spot of luck. Mycroft, happy to see you’re gracing us with your august presence early in the day.”

“Droll, as always, Uncle Rudy. In any case… I…”

As Rudolph Holmes was focused on his nephew, he didn’t notice that Greg was staring in shock just as much as the young man who had just strolled into the bar as if he owned it. Which wasn’t quite the case yet, but Mycroft was ever one to capitalize on hypotheticals and niggly details. Made his uncle’s heart proud.

“What’s flown up your skirt, lad?”

“That… I… him… there…”

“Greg? He’s auditioning for the bartender position. Actually, I should amend that to say he’s the new member of our bartending staff and, now that you’re here, you can show him the staff area and find something to fit him so we can have it pressed or run it to the tailor for a few adjustments, if needed. Greg, this is my nephew, Mycroft Holmes. He’s covering the bar tonight, actually, but usually handles other front of house matters here while I sort out the nonsense in the club proper. You’ll be seeing a lot of each other, so might as well start now, right?”

Rudy smiled and held back his other smile until his back was to the _two_ numpties staring at each other like dogs seeing a juicy steak. Fraternization was frowned upon among the staff, but Mycroft never paid any mind to what was or was not frowned upon, so this should be interesting. Entertaining, at least, though he would have a word with the boy that Greg wasn’t to be bothered while doing his job. Off the clock was more appropriate as long as no snogging or whatnot went on where a guest might see them.

Not that that would be problem for Mycroft and Greg, though, because the only time they’d done any snogging or whatnot… emphasis on the whatnot… happened in an alley next to a club last night and the alleyway here was happily behind the building and out of sight of prying eyes…


	2. Chapter 2

_“You’re far too gorgeous to be here alone.”_

_“I’m not alone, am I, now you’re here.”_

_“No, you certainly are not. Though, perhaps, being a bit more alone would be a good thing at the moment.”_

_“Alone with company?”_

_“The best sort.”_

_“Let’s take a walk, then.”_

_“Thought you’d never ask.”_

_____

“I see. Gregory, is it?”

Gorgeous, gorgeous Gregory…

“Yeah, Gregory. Greg. Greg Lestrade. And you’re Mycroft, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s… it sounds daft to say it’s good to meet you, but…”

“Formal introductions were not at the forefront our minds when we met, I should think.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and strolled forward, taking a seat at the bar and resting his chin on a pair of fingers supported by his elbow sitting somewhat tauntingly on the bar top.

“No, no that was certainly not… well, now we’ve had the chance to make it right! Hello, Mycroft! Quite the coincidence coming for a job and it’s your uncle doing the interview. I hope he doesn’t think you gave me the inside line on the opening because we… met in a rather specific way. Hate to have the manager thinking I’m a bit shady.”

“Owner.”

“What?”

Though Mycroft’s sly grin confirmed Greg hadn’t misunderstood that particular word.

“Uncle Rudy owns the bar. And the club. And various other properties that hold much less of his attention. Those he leaves for others because, frankly, they bore him.”

“O…owner. Bloody wonderful. I played the fucking cheeky monkey for the actual owner. That’s fine for a manager, because their lot often come up from the rough or, at least, rougher than those they work for and they respect a bit of cheek and brashness. Owners, though… I’m surprised he didn’t toss me out on my arse!”

“He probably considered it, but Uncle Rudy does admire a quality arse and would be loath to bruise one quite so… lush… as yours.”

Greg’s scandalized gasp made the final vestiges of Mycroft’s fading look of shock fade even faster and settle into something best described and knowing. And sultry.

“And have no worry that he will view you poorly for your… roughness. Or the fact you fucked his nephew in an alley behind a decidedly tawdry club. That will actually boost your stock, in his eyes, because I am _extremely_ selective about who I fuck.”

Greg was suddenly upset his cousin Angela got their Gran’s pearls when she passed because he could certainly use a nice set to clutch at the moment. Of course, it _was_ this confidence, as well as his elegant beauty and brazen sensuality, that had him following Mycroft out of the club to have a blisteringly intense bit of fun that made him have a good wank later that night when he thought about it alone in his bed. He might be a young punk, but he usually didn’t do things like that; at least have a drink first, get the person’s name. When this one looked into his eyes, though… it felt like fire flowing through his veins.

“Well done me, then. He made the right choice, though. I can do this job and do it well. You… you work here, too?”

“I do, though, my duties are not terribly specific. Typically, I handle guest relations, but I step in where there is a need in other areas. Such as the bar, which I suppose I do need to set up in preparation for tonight.”

“Right! And I need to get sorted for my uniform and start learning the protocols.”

“I shall be delighted to assist with that. We must be very certain your uniform fits your body perfectly.”

Mycroft’s seductive grin spelled out in fine detail how that fitting was going to proceed.

“Hey! None of that on the clock.”

“But we are not on the clock.”

“On the premises, then. Professional standards, and all that.”

“I have a suite on the upper floor. Is that sufficiently off premises for you?”

Rudy rolled his eyes from his precisely chosen surveillance spot, then reminded himself that Mycroft learned those moves from someone in the family, who might be him, so he shouldn’t be quite so judgmental. Even though Mycroft was being far too forward for this introductory salvo. Silly boy must genuinely have interest in Greg to make such a strategic blunder. Being a blunderboy was something he certainly inherited from his father. James could dissolve into a blabbering dunderhead in under three seconds when he tried to talk to a girl he fancied. He was very lucky to finally meet someone who could see beneath his blithering idiot exterior to the person underneath. And to drag that person along with her until he could close the tap on the blabbering, un-dunder his brain and actually function as a human being having more in his head than a monkey clanging cymbals.

“No. It isn’t, but… you really have rooms here?”

“Ultimately, the nebulous obligations I fulfill do not always follow a strict schedule, so it is never certain when I might have time to sleep. It is simply more efficient.”

And you don’t pay a penny of rent, nephew, don’t forget that bit.

“And you’ve not got any rent to pay, I suspect.”

You’re a sharp lad, Greg. Well done.

“The additional aggravation of being at Uncle’s beck and call fully offsets that minor benefit.”

Minor? I could charge a fortune for that space, you evil puppy. Of course, I would also lose the entertainment factor that is your evil puppy life and that would be a very steep cost for a return of naught but cold, impersonal cash.

“Oh. I felt like that, at times, when I lived at home. Makes the wallet happy, but having Mum believe I was her personal odd jobs and errands boy wasn’t so fun, especially when I really needed a lie in for a truly brutal hangover and she wanted me to go and do some weeding at a friend’s house. Her friend with four kids under the age of six.”

She made you do that _because_ you were hung over, lad. Never underestimate the clandestine lesson-teacher and misery peddler that is the standard mum. And grandmother. They’ve lived longer and learned more advanced tactics.

“Ghastly. Fear not, however, Gregory. Any overindulgence in which we may engage will not bring your pain and suffering. Unless, of course, you find that very much to your taste.”

You are shaming my genes, Mycroft. Prepare for a lecture. With visual aids!

“You…”

You’re gorgeous and smell like summer rain on warm grass but that’s not important now.

“… you’re wrong in the head, you know that?”

Perfect. That shall be the first line of my upcoming lecture.

“Pish tosh. I simply recognize that pleasures come in many forms to suit different tastes. However… yes, I suppose I may be overstepping things at the moment...”

You leaped, lad. You leaped like a kangaroo over those things. Your brother isn’t even this daft and he’s the daftest person in London.

“… Do pardon me, Gregory. I was, perhaps, somewhat startled by seeing you here today. Though, I am most delighted to have done so. And I further suppose that our encounter last night indicated you appreciated a more aggressive approach. An understandable mistake.”

Greg peered at Mycroft with narrowed eyes and wasn’t entirely certain he saw any form of startle or chagrin on Mycroft’s face. In fact, that little smirk on his lips said very much all that bit was bollocks, but… he couldn’t argue that he’d very much appreciated a more aggressive approach last night and, while it was still unprofessional to do that at their place of work, when you’re the nephew of the owner, the rules are likely different on that score. However, he had his own rules, too.

“Ok… that makes a sort of sense. But know this… yeah, I’m not posh like you, but when it comes to work, I do a job right and conduct myself as a professional. I won’t tolerate any shenanigans while I’m trying to work.”

“Shenanigans?”

“You heard me.”

“I am not at all certain I did.”

“No shenanigans. Got it?”

Was someone serving popcorn with this performance? Dear heavens, but they were dramatic young men. Must ensure their work hours overlap as often as possible. The guests will absolutely adore them.

“Let us bargain, shall we? Just a _bit_ of shenanigans.”

“Nope.”

“The tiniest taste.”

“How are you not getting this?”

“Not even a full shenanigan, more a single shenan. The smallest, scantest shenan that ever existed.”

Greg folded his arms and glared across the bar at the person smiling wickedly at him. Which made his cock tingle in anticipation because it was a traitorous, lack-of-standards bastard.

“Replay what I said about your head and double it.”

“So cruel. Fortunately, I find that highly attractive.”

Mycroft’s lips formed a picture-perfect moue of contentment and Greg responded only by pointing fixedly at the antique drop dial clock set on the wall which declared the time in handsome old-world numerals.

“See that?”

“The clock?”

“The time. You’ve got to see me sorted with a uniform and get your own self ready for your shift. Tick tock tick tock…”

You have management potential, Greg Lestrade. And not only because you can manage Mycroft at his most ridiculous.

“Oh very well. I, also, believe in maintaining professional standards so a start must be made on preparations. And, given my instructions for the evening, you shall be close at hand so we have ample opportunity to get to know one another.”

“From a respectful distance.”

“Define respectful.”

“Far enough away that if I take a swing at your sex-crazed head, it’ll stay on your neck.”

“Lucky for me you have short arms.”

“I do not!”

“I will certainly have to measure those short, though marvelously muscular arms, to secure your uniform, so we shall have quantitative evidence of my claim.”

“I’ll do the measuring. You can’t be trusted.”

“I am highly trustworthy. I promise to measure accurately and only fleetingly run my fingers across your tantalizing skin.”

“Keep your fingers to yourself. Respect the distance!”

“Which we have yet to set, so belay your protestations until you can find suitable materials for your sign and the appropriate march in which to display it.”

“I’m keeping my eye on you.”

“Excellent! Your eyes are utterly entrancing.”

Kangaroo leaping again, my darling nephew. We really need to work on your flirtation skills. If Greg doesn’t have you tied up in a closet and finishes your shift himself tonight, I’ll pay myself £50. Given the table of dreary bankers the club is hosting tonight, I’ll need the extra cash for paracetamol and cheap alcohol to chase it down. Never waste good spirits on a financial sector-prompted headache. They’re too common and the best liquors should be savored rarely to honor their lofty prestige…


	3. Chapter 3

Greg had to admit it and did so without hesitation – Mycroft knew how to work a bar. As ridiculous and loony as he was, Mycroft mixed a proper drink and provided good service to their customers. And, by their, he meant that in as jointly a manner as possible since one of the other high-end establishments had an electrical fire that sent a large party of well-to-do’s their way, where a second large part of well-go-do’s had already gathered, along with the more typical groups of patrons and they were pushing safety limits for occupancy.

That necessitated his day of just watching and learning becoming a day of donning the uniform with the closest fit to his measurements and hopping in to cover the drink orders the server staff brought over while Mycroft handled the bar itself. And, so far… he loved it. The staff had a tidy private area for their use with a locker, private toilet and a small, but clean, shower for those days you needed it either before or after your shift. He adored the uniform, too. Exactly what he would expect for an establishment like this – black shoes, socks and trousers, white shirt, black bow tie – but what set it apart was the waistcoat. Black and gold brocade that looked amazing under the warm lighting and made it easier to tell staff from patrons, a large number of whom were in formal attire, tuxedo jackets slung over shoulders. Frankly, it made him look incredible and…

… it made Mycroft look incredible, too. He looked like someone bred to wear fine clothes and the bespoke tailoring made his uniform fit both comfortably and beautifully, the comfortable part obvious from the easy way Mycroft moved wearing it, quickly making drinks, wiping the bar, reaching for bottles… all the little things something that fit poorly made miserable. Of course, the easy, confident motion made the lunatic look all the more stunning, so the point was reemphasized.

To his credit, that stunning loony hadn’t done anything horribly ridiculous since the two of them had to start working together to handle the unexpected numbers. The little hip bump here or ‘special’ grin there, but even a lunatic can tell when attention has to be focused on work, apparently, when it’s as hectic as this.

“Double Tanqueray martini, sauvignon blanc no preference, Grey Goose rocks.”

Greg started in on the easy order and took a moment to survey the bar and realize that, no, the crowd wasn’t thinning and, yes, he’d likely be here until closing. Definitely a full night to his name and he could say his name was not being besmirched by his performance.

“And…”

When a server was a bit hesitant about something, it was time to pay close attention.

‘Yeah?”

“Ok, Table 2 wants… they’re considering a holiday and think they’re going to base their choice on what drink they like best, so they want a taste of… the world.”

“Which means?”

“You have as much idea as I do. But there’s three of them, so three each of whatever you have.”

“Straight or as cocktails?”

Greg rolled his eyes as the server took their first order away to leave him mulling ‘the world’ with no further assistance. Maybe Mr. Guest Relations had an idea.

“Mycroft?”

“Hmmm…”

“You happen to know anyone at Table 2?”

Mycroft glanced over and nodded.

“Two of them are in the House of Lords and the third lacks a title but has more money than the other two combined. I’d estimate the intellectual capacity for the whole table to be equal to that of a budgie that had accidentally flown headfirst into a wall.”

“So, rich and stupid.”

“Very rich and very stupid.”

Greg gave a quick synopsis of the nebulous order and Mycroft paused to consider.

“Set out small samples of a half dozen or so terribly expensive brands, neat, and avoid those from any country that might be considered poor, even if they have a respectable resort to their credit.”

“I couldn’t name a single resort if I had a gun to my head.”

“Yes, point taken. Ignore that bit, then and set out half a dozen now, with word that another half dozen will follow if nothing there hits the right notes. Ultimately, the ginger chap has the title but his wife has the money and the short fellow has to assess the locations of his various mistresses before he can make any decisions, so have no fear you will have any appreciable influence on their holiday choices. It’s all a game, likely. Rich, stupid and bored… silly little games are a rather hefty part of their day to day life.”

“Got it.”

And Greg did. Silly little games kept him and his mates occupied, too, now and again. There was a supposed point to them, though nothing as costly as a holiday, but it was more an exercise of nonsense to pass some time and enjoy themselves without, in their case, spending a lot of cash. For this lot, spending cash was most assuredly part of the game, so quickly scanning for the quality sake, tequila, dark rum, bourbon, absinthe and maybe a stellar akvavit to round out an initial tray. Diverse tastes offering loads to argue about, which was really the point of the whole thing, in all likelihood. Make conversation, have some laughs, spend some cash, get royally drunk… very much like him and his mates, overall.

“Ooh, this looks interesting.”

“Mr. Holmes, sir. Yeah…”

Greg looked at the tray of shot glasses he’d set up in preparation for the various top shelf booze he was about to dispense.

“Let me guess… one of the tables has a mood for a tasting.”

“In a sense, yes.”

“The good stuff?”

“Mycroft seems to think so.”

So the collaboration had begun. Not that Rudy had thought for a moment it wouldn’t happen, seeing the two work together behind the bar. He’d been impressed Greg didn’t need to be asked to muck in to help with the unexpected surge of customers and more impressed that, his nephew’s absurdity aside, the two had focused on the job and kept the bar operating as efficiently as he could have hoped for the situation.

“Then don’t second guess anything you think to pour. Mycroft knows the guests and those he doesn’t know off hand, he’s good at predicting, so line our pockets, Greg my boy. They’ll be happy and so will we.”

“Yes, sir. Not a problem.”

“And Greg… very good job tonight. I haven’t heard a single complaint and I absolutely would with this lot if anything wasn’t to their liking. Not that any of it might be your fault, but you take my meaning.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

And he did. Nobody needed to tell him he knew his job, it was nice to have his skill acknowledged anyway. Especially by the person in charge of sacking him should that skill acknowledgement take a downturn.

“Two Hine Triomphe.”

Rudy grinned that the server who’d elbowed between him and the bar to place the order paid him no mind as it was precisely what he demanded of the staff. Push past the lollygaggers and get the job done. Even if that lollygagger was him. Especially if that lollygagger was him. He was exceptionally talented in the lollygagging area.

“Back to work, lad. Make sure to have a break or two, though. It’s going to be a rough night.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

Rudy melted back into the crowd and Greg felt no surprise at the fact Mycroft felt the need to press close reaching around him for an orange slice.

“Uncle being a bother?”

“Quite the opposite. Just telling me I wasn’t shaming myself too terribly bad on my first day.”

“Good. At least he hasn’t completely gone senile.”

That was an actual compliment. For him, that is, not poor Rudy Holmes. Thanks, Mycroft!

“Middle-aged is a touch early for senility, don’t you think?”

“Not if your brain is constantly being barraged by politicians, the uselessly wealthy, media personalities and my family.”

“You’re part of that ‘my family’ you know.”

“I am an island of rationality and practicality in an ocean of lunacy.”

Mycroft thought he was the normal one. Either the rest of the family was confined to an asylum or Mycroft needed to be. Probably the latter.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Ah, Mr. Gimme a Gimlet is waving at me. Wanting his fourth, it seems.”

“What’s Mrs. Gimlet having?”

“Vodka and lime. Oh, and the blond fellow at the end of the bar, if rumor is to be believed.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow to indicate that not only should rumor be believed, but it didn’t tell half the story, before smiling at his customer and starting in on the order.

“Four Bowmore 25, one over ice.”

Greg smiled at this new server and continued on with the work. This job offered good pay, the chance to handle excellent booze and no short supply of good gossip. This was definitely worth the risk of storming in today and putting his all on the line.

“Don’t mind me; just reaching for the orange juice.”

Which you have at your station, you twat, that, coincidentally, isn’t close to my thigh. Risks can bring rewards and, apparently, they can bring Mycroft. Guess you have to take the good with the strange, even when the strange is nuclear level and looks like sex on two long, luscious legs…

__________

Greg watched the last of the patrons escorted, on very wobbly legs, out of the bar by their personal driver and gave one final look around before heaving a long breath and smiling widely. What a night! He’d worked a lot of busy places before, but this was a slightly different breed. Often he was doing multiple jobs, but here he could focus purely on the bar. There was no shortage of staff tending to the various tables, dishwashing, stocking, clearing… competent people as focused on their work as he was and every person treated with respect and dignity. The staff coming in now to give the place what looked to be a thorough, deep cleaning was greeted and talked to with the same level of professionalism and affability by Rudy Holmes as any of the serving staff or, actually, any of the guests.

“Most of those cleaners have been with us for over a decade. Uncle demands excellent performance, but compensates appropriately and, despite being a plague of man, views each job from the club’s chef to the dishwashers as vital to the business’s function. Your position only opened because Andrew, who you replaced, relocated to Canada for his wife’s job. He had been with Uncle for 15 years.”

Greg nodded without looking at Mycroft and cast his mind forward, seeing himself in 15 years, standing behind that bar, and didn’t find that image distressing in the slightest. Strangely, one thing he hoped for in his life was… stability. He’d never be a dull, plodding gent, that much he promised himself, but he did want the stability, the assurance, to be able to enjoy his life. Have fun, go a bit wild when he had a mind to, without worrying about how he’d make rent.

“I can’t say I’ve seen anything that makes me doubt that. Except for the loony bit about your uncle being a plague.”

“He festers in my life like an infestation of plague boils. The mere thought makes my mind curdle with its own set of the fullest, most necrotic of boils.”

“Your head is so beyond wrong that it’s not measurable by science.”

“My brother claims similar, however, like you, he is grossly mistaken. But, let us turn our conversation from my brain towards other body parts, shall we, and the readily available set of rooms above us where they can be put to good use.”

Greg ignored the large, seductive grin and made one last look around the bar in preparation for whatever closing entailed and making his way home.

“My actual uniform will be cleaned and ready tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, most likely the tailor should have opportunity to have one ready to fit you a bit better than this saggy sack.”

“Alright, then. What do I need to do to end my shift?”

“Oh, I can think of a world of delightful things.”

Rudy tossed a lemon wedge at Mycroft who hissed like an affronted cat and wiped the lemon residue off his skin.

“You’d clear the till and leave instructions for the day shift if something has to be tended to, such as dodgy tap or an unexpected run on a certain label we’ll need to quickly restock. Tomorrow, we’ll go through managing the till, prices, special situations and the like since Mycroft handled most of that himself tonight. The next time we see a rush like tonight it’ll be you handling the bar proper and Mycroft will be covering table orders. He prefers that, in any case, less interaction with the riff raff.”

“And how do Lord and Lady Riff Raff feel about that?”

“Saddened, since they live in hope of getting him to do the Time Warp with them and have not yet met with success.”

Greg’s confused face made Rudy laugh and give him brilliant smile. The young were just _so_ young, at times…

“Another customer for Rudy’s music education course, it seems.”

Mycroft’s loud snort made his uncle laugh again and give him a pinch on the cheek, just like a toddler who’d done something particularly adorable.

“You’ll learn, Greg, that my nephew won’t listen to anything written after 1925 and only a few pieces written at that late a date merit his attention.”

Greg had a sack of confused faces filling quickly since a new one bloomed, this one turned in Mycroft’s direction. The club in which they’d met certainly didn’t have a symphony playing as a soundtrack for the chaos and revelry.

“Oh… well, classical stuff is absolutely worth listening to. I’m no snob when it comes to music. Listen to anything as long as I like it.”

“Smart boy. Don’t let labels or should’s get in the way of enjoying yourself. Alright, I’ll be on with my own bit of closing and if you could come in a few minutes early tomorrow, Greg, to tend to some paperwork, that would be helpful.”

“Sure, not a problem.”

“Excellent. Mycroft, we’ve got Cabinet ministers tomorrow, so gird your loins.”

“Joyful. Entertaining donors?”

“Entertaining diplomats.”

“Marginally better.”

“We’ll take what we can get.”

Rudy smirked and made his exit, while Mycroft pursed his lips then let them slide into a configuration that well-suited the thoughtful look that overtook his face.

“Something interesting, Mycroft?”

“What? Oh, just reviewing various political situations and predicting who might be in attendance. Not that it matters, ultimately. In any case, join me for a drink?”

Greg cocked a suspicious eye at Mycroft, who favored him, in turn, with an innocent smile A suspiciously innocent smile.

“ _Just_ a drink?”

“Well… I hate to curtail our options at the outset.”

“Ok, I’m going home.”

“Gregory, don’t be so churlish. Just a little drink. Consider where you are and with what you might indulge.”

That _was_ a powerful argument.

“And no outset?”

“I…”

Something flickered across Mycroft’s face that Greg couldn’t identify but found himself enjoying, nonetheless.

“… if you simply _must_ be tedious.”

“I must. And you’re paying.”

“Uncle will pay. It is the least he can do to offset the fresh set of boils and sores he gifted me with his touch.”

“You have problems.”

“Fortunately, erectile dysfunction is not one of them.”

“Just for that, pour me two fingers of Balvenie 21 and you _are_ paying.”

“I can put two fingers to far better use than measuring scotch.”

Greg pointedly walked around the bar, took a seat and glared at Mycroft who smirked and poured each of them a hefty serving of Greg’s choice of scotch. Tonight had been… informative. The wild, uninhibited sex god he’d shagged last night was a highly interesting person and this unexpected streak of prudery was actually… stimulating. And, if he was to admit it… admirable. A fast and filthy fuck purely for fun in a sordid alley was one thing, but the circumstances were different and Gregory had adjusted his standards accordingly.

Of course, that meant _he_ was going to bed alone tonight, but that was acceptable. There were many other nights on the horizon and if there was one thing at which he was skilled, and there were many, truth be told, it was leveraging circumstances to his benefit. This one might require… romance. What a novel idea! Romance… he could be romantic. He could _excel_ at being romantic! Mycroft Holmes could excel at whatever he wanted and what he wanted was Gregory Lestrade. One had to work for the finer things in life and he was, in no manner, afraid of hard work.

And few, if any, came finer than Gregory…


	4. Chapter 4

No, he was not officially a timid flower because he was peeking into the bar before he went inside so he could surveil the territory for a certain person who might be lounging about waiting for him to step inside so he could… pounce. That was silly. He was… admiring the signage. He was proud of himself that he’d not asked outright and did a bit of reading to understand why a bar called Cynics was attached to the Diogenes Club. And he truly admired the aesthetic for the signage for each. The club had only a simple brass plague with the name clearly printed in a subdued, but sophisticated font. The bar’s name was emblazoned on a hanging sign and window with a florid, yet elegant font, boldly presented but perfectly tasteful. He had almost zero doubt that Rudy was the one who chose it since it was very much like the man himself.

And, since that man was now strolling into the bar the fine font adorned, it was time to start on the most vital task in modern life – filling out forms.

“Greg! Perfect timing. Your uniform arrived an hour ago and I was just getting your papers together so you can actually be paid for standing about this fine establishment.”

“I’ve got my signing hand warmed up and ready.”

“Good! And keep it warm because it should be another busy night, though not as ridiculous as what you experienced yesterday. Actually, most nights are busy here, but you made a good show of it already, so I have no doubt you’ll manage well. And you’ll get to experience what a normal night will bring. I know you scarcely had a moment to breathe last night, let alone eat, but I like my staff to stay energized while working. A chance to eat, to wee, to breathe… we’ll talk about how to make all of that happen.”

“Eating… you mean it’s not Mycroft shoving me from the bar, ordering me to go have a piss and some kind person meets me halfway with an amazing sandwich and handful of crisps I could eat with my fingers in five minutes?”

Rudy smirked but mentally laughed and rubbed his hands together in scheming glee. Mycroft taking care of his object of lust… really, that was just too delicious.

“Very much like that! He used our little magic button that alerts the kitchen to have something ready for you to grab. Healthy and delectable, but we’ll make certain they know your preferences so you don’t have to rely on something generic. Or, if it’s a slower night, you can grab a plate of whatever the chef puts out for the staff meal. The club personnel have a little more time and flexibility to sit and eat, but you’re in a different position. We’ll see you properly fed, though. There are going to be many nights you’ll be here long after closing for this reason or that and I refuse to let my people suffer for the demands I put on them.”

“Yes, sir. That’s…”

For someone who loved London, but not how expensive it was so that the choice between food and rent sometimes reared its ugly head, this was a work benefit that meant a great deal.

“… very helpful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome! Now, let me get your forms and… while I’m here, let me show you the Magic Button set.”

Rudy crooked his finger for Greg to follow him behind the bar and showed Greg the small panel under the bar where Mycroft had worked the night before.

“They’re self-explanatory, really. ‘Kitchen’ will alert them that you’re peckish. Give them ten minutes or so and you can pick up something to eat while you have a little break. Or they can bring it out for you to nibble at intervals in the stock area behind the bar. ‘Cover’ is for when you need someone to cover the bar for you for more than a short run to the loo. It could be Mycroft or someone else, but if you’re feeling ill or had a bad experience with a guest and need a bit to cool off, give it a poke. ‘Rudy’ is yours truly and that’s if your bad experience is escalating to something you feel needs special handling, someone I’m meeting has arrived or it’s a person with a question about booking a party or the like. Mycroft _can_ manage those, but people often want to speak to ‘the manager’ for a bigger function. We have a few rooms we do hire out for events and some people simply like to do business in person and not over the phone. ‘Security’ is… we don’t often have need for that, but don’t hesitate if you feel it’s required. I train people well to assess and handle matters as discreetly as possible, so don’t worry a couple of burly lads are going to race out with cricket bats looking to break a few heads.”

“That much I could do myself, in any case. It’s the discrete part I might need a spot of help with.”

“Not at all unexpected and that’s why I have trained staff to handle those occurrences when someone’s getting belligerent with you or another guest, the rare scuffle starts or any other matter that threatens the welfare of guests or staff. You see trouble, take steps. I don’t condone anyone feeling unsafe or uncomfortable in my establishment.”

“I will.”

“Rudy?”

Greg turned at the strong, albeit feminine voice, and saw a smartly dressed blonde woman with fine features and an impish smile.

“Alicia, dear, good to see you. This is our new bartender, Greg Lestrade. Greg, this is Ms. Elizabeth Atwood, though she delights in the saucier Alicia.”

Greg smiled warmly and held out his hand because this was precisely the sort of bird who appreciated that sort of thing and would punch his teeth down his throat if he actually called her a bird, so he should probably scrub that term from his vocabulary here and now.

“Greg, very good to meet you. You’ll love working here. Well, as long as you don’t mind the upper crust being their typical crusty selves. Is Mycroft about?”

This last was directed at Rudy who grinned and pointed upwards, which had Alicia smiling and waving as she strode away towards what Greg would learn was the stairs to the upper floors.

“Before you get jealous, Greg…”

“What? Why on Earth would I be jealous?”

Ignore the fact that I’m simmering a bit in a flavorful jealousy sauce at the moment, though, if you’d be so kind. I’m not boiling in it, so it doesn’t count, in any case.

“I have no idea. I must be insane. Anyway, before you get jealous, they’ve been friends, just friends, since Uni. She would have been a couple of years ahead of him if he hadn’t started so early but they got along famously.”

“She seems very nice. And… not the type to take shit from the likes of… well, anyone.”

“Succinct and accurate. Now, let’s get you sorted so you can prepare for tonight.”

“Cabinet ministers?”

“A flock of them, but I doubt you’ll have considerable interaction with that sorry lot. They’re in one of the upstairs rooms for their little gathering, but most will mill about here for awhile, trying to pretend they’re an average chap, salt of the earth and all that, failing miserably the entire time but everybody will be properly polite and not tell them they’re utter wankers who need to give their heads a soak. Even the ones who voted for them think they’re dreadful, but since that brand of dreadfulness positively impacts their bank accounts, they loath to give that character assessment much of a voice.”

“Oh good. I worried that I’d have to make conversation and not have the proper enunciation to earn much approval.”

“You’d be in good company. Mycroft can affect that faux-refined snootiness with ease, but I lose interest after a few minutes and can’t be arsed.”

Greg smirked because he had zero doubt Rudy could be even more refined than Mycroft if he chose, but he honestly could envision the man losing interest in the game and in short order.

“I’ll just smile and nod.”

“Perfect! Now, fill these out and I’ll see them appropriately filed so neither you nor me has to worry about the tax man appearing at our door. Given this rather short-notice hire, the work schedule is set for this week and the next, but I try and give people proposed hours early so they can yell at me, as needed. If you know in advance you need a specific day free, let me know as soon as possible. I do try to accommodate the various mother’s birthdays and anniversaries and the like, so don’t wait until the day of to let me know you need the time.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“Good! Get cracking on those forms and I’ll distract you by going over the various things you need to know to work this bar alone.”

“Lovely. My brain can scarcely manage correctly spelling my name and you want to play Mr. Tour Guide.”

“I have to have some fun in all of this.”

“Fine. But I’m not stopping at the gift shop for a nice souvenir to bring home.”

“Such a dreary person you are, Greg. Rather like that miserable prick.”

Greg followed Rudy’s wicked smile to where it ended at a shortish man a few years younger than his own age who was making a rude gesture in response to Rudy’s grin.

“Do you want your delivery or not?”

“Given Mrs. Hudson would gut me like a fish if I said bugger off, I suppose I must say yes. But it does not please my internals to do so.”

“It’s your fault Sherlock’s the way he is, you know.”

“Oh no… you can’t lay that sin on my soul. I blame witches.”

“Being a witch would be useful! He might actually be able to magic up a spot of cash when we’re out and he claims to everyone within earshot… which is where we’re standing to Wales… that he’s skint and, further, money is a character flaw of the poor.”

Greg’s confused face made Rudy laugh and fantasize about the placid contentment that accompanied being blessedly unaware of the chaotic and nonsensical genius that was his other nephew.

“Will His Majesty be joining us today, John, or are you going to successfully flee this shady gin joint with your hearing and sanity intact?”

“Not now, but I’m meeting him later after he invades Mycroft’s flat.”

“Should I ask why he’s doing that?”

“Probably not. In any case, I did make him promise that he won’t set anything on fire, steal anything that would be difficult to replace or swap Mycroft’s toothpaste with some form of gel-based concoction made of snake venom and quick-setting cement.”

“Then Mycroft has nothing to complain about.”

This new look of confusion on Greg’s face was more amusing than the first and Rudy decided it earned him a proper introduction to their new conversation partner.

“Where are my manners? Yes, I know, John, pretend I have some for the moment, alright? Greg Lestrade, this is John Watson, proud deliverer of flowers almost as fragrant and delicate as himself. John, this is Greg our new bartender.”

John walked forward and extended a hand, shaking Greg’s with nearly the force of Alicia Atwood.

“Good to meet you. You’ll enjoy working here, despite this berk.”

“I already do. And good to meet you, too. Work for a florist?”

“When I’m not studying or in class. I’m training to be a doctor.”

“Really? That’s great. Must be hard, though.”

“It is, but I’m not afraid of hard work and it’s truly what I want to do, so I don’t complain. Much.”

“John, stop pestering Gregory. He has to work to do.”

Rudy smirked at Mycroft’s peevish voice. Apparently, jealousy was running a bit wild today.

“Mycroft. First, fuck you. Second, I also have work to do, but I can spare a moment for the pleasantries because I’m a delightful fellow who people… sometimes… like. Unlike someone who will remain nameless, though he looks suspiciously like you.”

“Go and proffer your posies.”

“I will! Mrs. Hudson will give me tea and biscuits for my proffering so why would I even consider not doing it?”

Mycroft honestly had no answer because Mrs. Hudson’s tea and biscuits were exceptional.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

A trifecta of Gregalicious confusion! Rudy could not be more pleased.

“She is… well, it’s hard to give her an official title but consider her the housekeeper for the club. Not the bar, especially, but the club is under her watchful eye. She supervises the cleaners and tends to the details of the club proper, such as the flowers and other little niceties. In truth, she’s _my_ housekeeper, but there’s not much house to keep for a bachelor, so she’s broadened her job description. And her wages. Very smart woman is our Mrs. Hudson. I’ll introduce you to her later if you EVER get those forms finished.”

Greg waved his pen-clutching hand in air and ignored Mycroft’s snort and John’s laughter as he bent to his task. Rudy, however, was not so inclined to ignore the snort. Or, more specifically, the snorter.

“Now, acorn of my family oak… go away.”

Mycroft waved a hand as imperiously as any bored, but stratospherically-entitled empress and Rudy swelled with pride as he’d spent what seemed like decades helping his nephew perfect that particular move.

“No, for you will come over with the vapors if I fail to notify you I will be late tomorrow evening. Alicia and I will be attending an exhibition at the British Museum.”

“Oh… and where is the lovely Alicia now?”

“Examining the paperwork for that investment I spoke to you about.”

“She does have a good head for those niggly legal things.”

“Perhaps that is why she is a solicitor.”

“Her father is so proud. He tells me that every time he pops in for a drink and to avoid Mrs. Atwood’s salons.”

“Then expect him sometime tonight, so I understand.”

Not for the first time John was glad he didn’t move in the social circles inhabited by Mycroft and Rudy. To him, a salon was where ladies went to have their hair styled and he truly doubted Alicia Atwood’s mother was cutting hair to put a few bob into the family coffers.

“I’ll see we’re stocked with Jameson then. He can murder a bottle or five of that when the wife’s having her crowd in for whatever’s tickling their fancy at present.”

Greg kept half an ear on the conversation while he filled out the forms, one far more detailed than he’d ever seen for a new job. However, he’d also never had a job at a place this upscale, so maybe it was the norm. Mycroft had let him get on with it, too! Not one hip bump or leer or feel up on anything. Not one. Not at all.

“This is taking a turn towards shop talk so I’ll pay my respects to Mrs. Hudson and see the van’s been unloaded without loss of floral life. The driver is a bit feral so it’s half of my day’s work keeping him from eating our deliveries.”

John doffed his imaginary cap and strode off to find Mrs. Hudson, who could usually be found this time of day sitting in the kitchen, infuriating the chef and having a cup of tea. Which meant he could have a cup of tea and that was a decidedly good thing. He had a long night of study ahead and tea would be his best friend to make that successful. Well, tea and whatever food he could gain for free by commiserating with the chef about what a busybody Mrs. Hudson was. He wasn’t proud; he’d betray her cravenly for a full container of something delicious to pack away for later. And Mrs. Hudson was ever so good about providing him secret information to use to make the chef froth at the mouth and very amenable to rewarding his informant with edible wages.

As John strolled away towards his delectable future, Rudy cast an eye over the forms and pursed his lips as Greg seemed paused over one in particular.

“Greg? How’re you doing?”

“Ummm…. good. I’m not sure I remember some of this, though, like when my grandparents were married. I sort of know, but…”

Mycroft snatched the paper from Greg’s hand, along with the pen and scrawled ‘Do Your Own Fucking Job’ across it in large, emphatic letters, which made Rudy sigh wearily.

“Thank you, Mycroft. So very helpful, as usual.”

Retrieving a fresh form, Rudy set it down in front of Greg and snatched the pen back from Mycroft, holding it like a dagger and stabbing the air between him and his nephew.

“Sign this one, Greg, and I’ll fill in what you’ve written from the one that twat defiled. Looks as if you have most of it completed, so don’t worry about the rest. Now, I’ll take these and send them to the proper hands while you get ready to work and Mycroft toddles off to actually play host to his guest and not leave her alone to do what is certainly unpaid work that benefits him somewhat greatly.”

Glaring at his nephew, then smiling at Greg, Rudy took the forms and strode towards his office, knowing full well Mycroft wouldn’t budge from the bar until Greg effectively kicked him in the arse. Better Greg than him, though. Mycroft’s arse was a stubborn one and these shoes were new. And exquisite.

“Want to tell me what that was about, Mycroft?”

“Boring. Let’s discuss something far more pleasant. Such as what I long to do to you and how it will make you feel.”

Mycroft leaned back to lay against the bar, looking up at Greg with beckoning eyes that twinkled when Greg merely crossed his arms and frowned.

“You’re neglecting your visitor.”

“The only one who neglects her is that idiot Smallwood, yet she remains convinced he is a redeemable lout. Fortunately, he is in America for the foreseeable future, so London is relieved of his tedium. But, let us speak of more pleasant things…”

Mycroft lifted a leg so his foot trailed up Greg’s body, starting just below the knee and reaching his upper thigh before Greg stepped aside and Mycroft’s toes were fondling air.

“How cruelly you deny me.”

“What’s all this then?”

“Pardon?”

“You were Mr. Business a moment ago and now you’re Mr. Feely Foot. What’s going on with you?”

“I have no idea what you are on about, so I shall turn attention to this – why traipse home after we close, when you could traipse upstairs with me and spend your time in a highly pleasurable manner?”

“I don’t like phonies.”

Greg stalked away towards the staff room and paid no heed to the loud exhalation of breath from the lunatic he was leaving in his wake. Though it caught up with him as he opened his locker.

“Oh, if you must know… John is, shall we say, friendly with my brother who would make both my life and yours utterly miserable if he learned of our torrid affair.”

“Which doesn’t exist.”

“Yet. However, the existence of something has never precluded Sherlock from making of it the proverbial mountain, though I would not describe the sexual fire I long to ignite again in you in any manner a molehill.”

“You’re saying you were worried John would tell your brother you know me and he’d be a bother because of that?”

“That is a profound minimization of the situation but the essence is correct.”

At least it was something Greg could understand, though. Little brother wanting to be a major pest when his brother fancies a person. If that was what was going on here. Whether Mycroft genuinely fancied him or just loved making him insane was yet to be determined.

“Your brother’s younger than you, right?”

“By every established metric.”

“Ok, then you’re acting more loony than normal makes a bit more sense. You’d best see to your guest, though. I doubt she’s happy with you just leaving her up there all alone.”

“I will wager you £100 that she has yet to notice I left.”

“First, I don’t have £100 and, second, it’s still rude.”

Greg had no idea what was at the root of Mycroft’s quizzical look, but decided it had something to do with Mycroft being unable to fathom someone not have £100 in their pocket to toss about on a silly wager.

“Gregory…”

Mycroft slid forward and pressed his body along the length of Greg’s frame, gently nuzzling his hair and reveling in the strongly remembered scent.

“… are you jealous?”

If he stepped forward, Greg would be inside his locker, which was embarrassing, but so was the hard on he was getting from the feel of Mycroft’s body pushing warmly and firmly against his. The man fit him like a glove.

“Given I don’t think you’ve a taste for women, that would be a bit daft of me, wouldn’t it?”

“Jealousy is not always fermented by a rational mind.”

“My mind is fairly well fermented, that’s true, but not by jealousy. More from countless cans of crap lager me and my mates would drink when we were legally too young to do it, let alone know the good from the vile.”

“Then let me inspire you with something better.”

“Sorry, on the clock. No drinking.”

And, the restrictions list should include no pressing your cock against me so I’m reminded of how incredible it felt in my mouth. I’ll hold off on adding that to the rules, though, because… what you make me feel is indescribable.

“Later, then. After work. Drink with me again.”

“Just a drink?”

“Your bitter heart is your least attractive feature, Gregory.”

“That’s a yes. So… alright, I’ll have an after-work drink with you.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Greg’s startled yelp was accompanied by a jump that slammed his head into the rather sharp edge of the locker door frame and the subsequent seeing of stars was made marginally tolerable by being held gently in Mycroft’s arms.

“That was foul and treacherous, Alicia!”

“What! I just asked if I was interrupting something like any polite person would do. Though, thinking about it, I do see why you would utterly fail to recognize an example of politeness.”

Mycroft’s snarl actually surprised Alicia because it wasn’t his usual affected show of ferocity. It was very, very real.

“Gregory was injured.”

Which explained the very, very real snarl.

“I’m sorry! I really am. Let’s see…”

This snarl was more vicious than the first and Alicia held up her hands and backed slowly away, desperately trying to hold back a laugh at the whole business. Not the business of that poor man being hurt, but Mycroft’s reaction. The berk! He was feeling something for this Greg more than his standard uninhibited, and unfocused, lust. Or, so it seemed. Mycroft was a terribly complex person, which was one of the reasons she adored him, but it did make deciphering his motivations fantastically difficult. Fortunately, his web of calculations _could_ be disentangled if one was willing to take the time and effort to do so and she was always up for a bracing challenge…

“Gregory, are you alright?”

Greg nodded, then chastised himself for being so profoundly stupid.

“Yeah. Just got a knock, that’s all.”

“Hmmmmm….”

Mycroft gently ran his fingers along Greg’s head feeling, as well as hearing, when he found the bump adorning Greg’s skull since Greg shrieked loudly, though he tried to camouflage it as a curse.

“You should have this seen to.”

“Nah. I’ve had worse. Much worse. A good day of football with the lads and I’m sporting an assortment of these. Bothersome, but not worrying.”

Mycroft held Greg in his arms until the other man seemed to get a tighter grip on himself and Mycroft was convinced letting him go wouldn’t result in a Greg-shaped heap on the floor.

“Are you certain?”

“I am. But…”

Greg turned slightly to look into Mycroft’s eyes and saw something different in there than the usual flame of temptation.

“… thanks. I appreciate it.”

“I will send John to have a look, regardless. For the amount of our food he is surely shoveling into his pockets, it is the very least he can do towards reimbursement. Have a seat here and I shall be but a moment.”

Greg accepted being escorted to a chair and only smiled as Mycroft stormed off to, undoubtedly, drag in a protesting John for a needless look at this thick skull, which was already feeling better. Maybe the posh didn’t have as much experience with being battered and bruised as his ilk so this seemed, to Mycroft, worse than it was. He could see that. Actually… he truly didn’t want to see that. Someone as elegant and sophisticated as Mycroft had no business getting into one of the typical dust ups that peppered his own youth. That face would _not_ stand up well to a ham-sized fist wielded by an angry prick who decided any person would do to help relieve some of that anger. And that thought… disturbed him. He’d laughed often enough at his mates, and himself, when that sort of thing happened, but he wouldn’t be laughing if it happened to Mycroft. Not in the slightest.

It was nice to see him concerned, though. Concerned about more than getting inside these trousers, that is. There was more to Mycroft, obviously, than being a sex maniac from a rich family. There was more to most people, actually, than first impressions, so this was not an example of particularly insightful thinking. However, this time he could blame the bump on his head and not his feeble and underdeveloped brain. In any case, he’d have time to fathom out just who was this Mycroft Holmes person because, fingers tightly crossed, he’d be employed here for a long, long time.

“Greg? Mycroft said you’d fractured your skull. How much of a lie was that and how hard do I have to pound him for taking me away from my tea?”

And, truthfully, the punkiest of punk bars didn’t offer this level of entertainment. As a special bonus, too, your teeth likely stayed safe in your mouth here, which was good, because Myc… _people_ seemed rather taken by _this_ person’s patented come-hither grin…


	5. Chapter 5

“Still with us, Greg?”

Greg grinned and turned around to feel no surprise that his grin was matched by Rudy’s.

“Nah. I shuffled off this mortal coil an hour ago. My corpse has a good work ethic, though, so it’ll finish up tonight and give proper service.”

“Excellent. Think he’ll be willing to say on until I find a living replacement? I’ll only reduce the wages slightly since I don’t think he’ll have much in the way of food costs to fund.”

“Good question. I’ll chat with it from the Great Beyond and see if I can put in a good word for you.”

“Excellent. Carry on, then.”

Rudy sauntered away while processing all the information he’d taken in during their brief conversation. Wits still together and stayed focused on conversation, smile was genuine, no visible signs of pain or distress, balance good, pupils appropriate for light level, hands steady… combined with the fact that Greg was two hours into his shift and was doing an excellent job covering the busy bar, this old biddy could set aside his worry. And he _had_ been worried, too. Anyone suffering a solid knock to the head was worth worrying over but anyone suffering a solid knock to the head who had Mycroft hovering about fretting with concern deserved an extra amount of worry.

Not that his nephew’s vigilance was noticeable to anyone but this pair of eyes, but the poor boy was keeping watch over Greg as if he was a baby chick near a den of hungry foxes. It was both hilarious and heartwarming that his nephew was taking such an active interest in Greg’s welfare. Oh look, the mother hen was making another swoop…

“Dear heavens, Gregory… it is a ghastly night.”

Ghastly was the opposite of what Greg was thinking, actually. The patrons were jovial and happy to open wide their wallets for excellent drinks, including a few fun surprises he hadn’t made in awhile. Or had only heard of. Like a Bee’s Knees! Who even remembered that one? Besides the 50-something gent to his left, that is.

And he was able, between orders, to cast a glance at a long, lean man in a toe-curling suit, prowling the floor, greeting guests by name and keeping his finger squarely on the pulse of the night. Who might be named Mycroft.

“Really? Hadn’t noticed, what with the wonderful time I’m having here keeping these fine patrons happy.”

“Your eagerness is… oh, I was going to be dismissive, but it would be a futile gesture, for you positively glow when you are eager.”

“Ooh, party of four joining our happy home. Shouldn’t you be greeting them with a smile on your lips, not standing here basking in my glow?”

“You know what I’d prefer on my lips, Gregory…”

“A bit of moisturizer?”

“Cruel… ever so cruel…”

Mycroft slowly spun and sauntered away in nearly as perfect a saunter as his uncle, which made Greg smile warmly. Two peas in a pod. Though Mycroft’s pea was a bit tarter. And sweeter. And he really needed to stop thinking about Mycroft’s pea-shaped anatomy while he was pouring £75/glass sherry or Rudy’s profit margin would take a hit this month. But he’d make a mental note to dwell upon the taste and feel of Mycroft’s bollocks later tonight when he was alone and could thoroughly savor the memory…

__________

“Greg?”

Greg glanced up from his work and smiled at Alicia who was shoving her way through the crush at the bar to grin brightly when she made it to the bar top.

“Ms. Smallwood – good to see you!”

“Alicia, please. After all, I nearly murdered you today. How’s your poor head?”

“Fine! A proper sting for a bit, but it faded away quickly enough. Really, it takes more than a quick smack to do any damage to this thick skull.”

“Good, I’m so glad to hear that. Not that your skull is thick but that you’re alright. If you’re interested in suing me, let me know and I’ll give you free legal advice to make the suit more likely to succeed. It’s the least I can do.”

“I will keep that firmly in mind. Here for a drink?”

“Drinks, plural. Let’s start with an Absolut martini and go from there. On Mycroft’s tab. It’s how he pays me for all the free legal advice I give _him_.”

A fact Rudy had been sure to note when getting Greg ready for his first solo shift, knowing that a day dealing with Mycroft usually meant the long-suffering Ms. Smallwood needed a stiff drink or eight to restore her senses.

“I’m also meeting Sherlock here. Do you know if he’s arrived yet?”

Greg put the drink in front of Alicia, who was glancing about the bustling bar, and wished he had an answer to give.

“That’s Mycroft’s brother, right? Nobody has said anything, but I don’t know what he looks like, so I can’t really say for certain.”

“Oh, you’ll probably know the minute he walks in because Mycroft will send off waves of dread and irritation. Sherlock can be… volatile, at times, but he’s fairly good at not needing a march to the door by security.”

“Lovely. John mentioned he was going to meet him, too, tonight, but I haven’t seen him either.”

Greg caught the gesture by a patron and gave her a nod before starting on another Grand Marnier for her sipping pleasure.

“Ooh, that’s interesting. But… also, not.”

“Do tell.”

Greg delivered the Grand Marnier and took several more orders to work on while the gossip flowed.

“There’s a flat Sherlock’s looking at and he wants me to inspect the lease agreement. Sherlock can be… hard… on property and I suspect he wants me to add certain clauses so he can’t get tossed out when he does something daft. Apparently the flat has _two_ bedrooms…”

“Two’s not terribly scandalous.”

“It is if you’re Sherlock. Or… you’re right, scandalous isn’t the right word. It’s more… once you meet Sherlock it will make more sense, but him even insinuating an offer to share a flat, and nothing more, is a very big step for him, even with someone he’s sort-of dating.”

“Sort-of?”

“It’s complicated. Or not. More that neither of them will just officially declare the time they spend together a date because they’re both idiots. But, honestly, I’d have a hard time imagining anyone willing to be Sherlock’s flatmate, romantic connection or not, other than John and for Sherlock to actually make any form of move is… it’s big.”

“Why are you pestering Gregory? He has work to do.”

Greg smirked and noted that Mycroft needed to work on his timing as he arrived the precise moment this busily-working bartender stepped away to distribute the drinks he’d just prepared.

“Are you still cross with me, Mycroft?”

“I am not cross, however, I also do not need you doing something to cause Gregory to lose focus. It is an easy thing to have an accident back there and he will not suffer more because of your nonsense.”

“Look at you, protecting your Greg from slipping on a dropped olive or something. You’re such a good… what stage have you reached? Boyfriend, lifemate, shag sharer?”

“Amusing.”

“That you are! Ooh, but that’s about to come to a screeching halt…”

Mycroft looked to where Alicia was glancing and sighed wearily.

“There you are, Mycroft.”

“Where else would I be, Sherlock, given you already knew I would be working this evening?”

“You could be anywhere in this mausoleum.”

“I will credit the point, flimsy though it is. You are here to meet John, I take it.”

“My business is my business.”

“What a wealth of flimsy points you have to your name today, brother dear. Very well, I shall leave you to revel in your flimsiness at your leisure.”

Mycroft began walking away then remembered there was someone Sherlock had yet to meet and that person best experience the meeting in a highly supervised manner. Of course, NOW the Cabinet ministers decide to begin their descent like a plague of locusts…

After a quick look back and what he hoped was both an informative and pleading glance at Alicia, Mycroft schooled his features to greet the new arrivals. And, oh goody… one appeared as if mind-altering chemicals had already made an appearance in his day. What fun. Well, at least the combination with alcohol would fill the blighter with cocaethylene and, if the nation was fortunate, mandate a prolonged stay in some restful hospital ward while his body chided him for being so enormously stupid.

“Ha! Mycroft’s innards will be boiling with agony for the rest of the night. Splendid.”

“You could be nicer to your brother, Sherlock.”

“Whatever for?”

Alicia rolled her eyes and made a ‘another, please’ gesture when she caught Greg’s eye. Someone who caught Sherlock’s eye when he noticed the face behind the bar was an unfamiliar one.

“Oh, they replaced Andrew. That was fast. Uncle generally takes a century to replace an employee.”

“Greg’s good luck, then.”

“Who is Greg?”

“The new bartender.”

“Preposterous. That is far too banal a name and Uncle prefers hires who have what he terms…style. Greg is a budgie’s name. Likely paired with something insipid such as The Egg because its owner is a half-wit.”

“Greg! Sherlock here thinks you’re a half-witted budgie. Don’t you feel honored?”

Greg’s confusion lasted only a moment until Sherlock’s name rang a few bells in his mind and the puzzle pieces formed their intended picture.

“I am! The honor is dripping off me like my feathers when I’m molting. Good to meet you, Sherlock.”

Greg extended a hand and shook the empty air a moment as Sherlock stared warily at it as if he was now worried it would magically transform into a colorful wing under his touch. Luckily, the flesh remained unfeathered as he finally gave it a perfunctory shake.

“You old enough to drink, Sherlock? If so, what can I get for you?”

“Dalmore Quintessence neat.”

“Nice choice. Now, the first question?”

“I have forgotten it.”

Mycroft snorted loudly and flicked his brother’s ear while Alicia laughed at the expected response.

“Very good, Gregory. The answer, of course, is no. Sherlock remains below the legal age for purchasing alcohol, albeit only by a scant few months, however, I shall purchase for him a suitable option. Have we fresh milk today? Perhaps a refreshing lemonade?”

Sherlock snarled, Mycroft smirked and Greg moved off to serve another guest because this could take awhile.

“That was evil, Mycroft.”

“As was trying to subvert the law.”

“Which you and Uncle do on a daily basis.”

“It rather depends to whose law you are referring. In any case, you are only ordering the Dalmore because of the cost and it is, truthfully, not likely to be to your taste. If you truly desire a whisky, have the Oban. I feel it will suit you better. Or, actually, the American Maker’s Mark. Surprisingly acceptable for that price and nationality. Now, if you will excuse me… I will ensure Gregory places that on the special Baby Sherlock tab that I or Uncle will clear. Mustn’t have the constables beating down our door for enabling the underaged rapscallions.”

Sherlock made a gesture behind Mycroft’s turned back that would have been scandalous if it wasn’t a favorite one for the rest of his family located on premises, including Mycroft himself. However, he failed to give it the fullest possible flower as he was too busy watching his brother speak to the new bartender. And smile. Mycroft’s actual smile. Which was a nauseating thing to behold, but extraordinarily rare for anyone outside an exceedingly small circle. Interesting.

“Your brother have you captivated, Sherlock?”

Though Alicia was not entirely certain if it was Mycroft or Greg that had Sherlock’s attention.

“Pfft. That is patently impossible for not only is he tedious he is utterly dreadful in all manner of character attributes.”

“He’s buying you alcohol; that’s not really well-described as dreadful. Good stuff, too.”

“Swill.”

Greg set down a drink in front of Sherlock and shook his head mournfully.

“Neither of those he suggested for you is swill and believe me, I’d know. Here, a little American whisky to fuel your blood. Your brother said you can have another once this one’s down your neck, but then the bottle’s capped for you unless your Uncle approves.”

Sherlock frowned petulantly, but took a sip and, though he made a ‘oh dear god I’ve been poisoned’ face out of principle, had to admit it wasn’t an unpleasant choice.

“My tongue is melting.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then!”

“Wait… you were talking with Mycroft.”

“Maybe that _was_ poison. I should read the label again.”

“New staff are talked _to_ by my brother, they do not speak _with_ him. You, however, were doing that very thing. Why?”

“He… started talking to me and it seemed rude to stand there like a statue. Alicia, are you good for now?”

“A short now, thank you.”

“I’ll check in soon, then.”

Greg smiled and moved away to continue working while Sherlock’s scrutiny burned a hole in his back.

“He is young.”

“You’re supposed to be a genius, Sherlock, and that’s the best you can observe about him? I’m disappointed.”

“Pshaw… I can observe much, but the point I currently am pondering is his age. Uncle rarely hires individuals that young, especially given the position was only recently vacated. If, in the highly unlikely event he was having difficulty filling it I might understand hiring someone that age, but… it is aberrant.”

“I can think of several people who work here who must have been hired young.”

“Not for a position so prominent and in need of both talent and practiced skill.”

“Fair. You’ve been watching Greg, though, how would you evaluate his work?”

“I have no interest in the ways of tavern craft.”

“Tavern craft? Really? That’s not nearly your best try; you must genuinely be nervous about this new flat of yours.”

“Untrue.”

“Then answer the question. How do you think Greg’s doing at his job? And no being a prat, either. Honest evaluation or sit there quietly and drink your whisky.”

Sherlock scowled, but turned an appraising eye towards the new bartender and watched him work for several minutes while Alicia sipped her martini and kept an eye out for John, who should be arriving soon.

“Very well.”

“Very well what, Sherlock?”

“I find no flaw in Godfrey’s work ability.”

“Godfrey. That’s not even close to Greg. But, despite you trying to be peevish, you’re right. He’s very good at his job. Rudy doesn’t hire people who don’t have the right skills and Greg seems to have what it takes to succeed. And, maybe it’s good he’s young. That could mean he’ll work here a long time, which is to your uncle’s benefit and… well, Andrew was what? At least as old as Rudy, if not a year or two older. It might… well, with Mycroft working here, part of Greg’s hiring might have been the thought that he could get along with your brother. Be a friend. Mycroft has few enough of those, as we both know.”

Sherlock scowled again but kept watching Greg for additional information, none of which was immediately forthcoming besides his capacity to quickly prepare a variety of orders and attend to the needs of his patrons. Something else was lurking about, though, he felt certain. He had an instinct that rarely failed him and he doubted it was doing so here. There would be ample time to pursue this puzzle, though, as those in Uncle’s employ typically remained here until they were pried away from their posts by significant changes in their life, often a visit by a grim gentleman sporting a rather large scythe.

Sherlock continued to think until a poke in his ribs had him sputtering into his whisky, which was dastardly of Alicia, in his opinion, since his sputtering timed perfectly with John’s arrival behind them at the bar.

“Wasting a drink, Sherlock? Poor form, that.”

“I had no intention of wasting anything. I was heinously assaulted and that was the outcome.”

“Well, let’s hope your drinking partner doesn’t have assault plans for me because I need every drop of whatever fine drink I’m served. Mycroft owes me at least one for my services today, despite his daft claim that I was stuffing my face with amazing food while making a delivery.”

“You charmed Mrs. Hudson again, I suspect.”

“Do you really blame me, Sherlock?”

“Though manipulation is a crass tactic, it is difficult to deny its potency when correctly applied. Especially when one can obtain tea and biscuits for one’s efforts.”

“There was cake today, too.”

“Is there any remaining?”

“Possibly. You’ll have to smile nicely for it, though.”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and John had no real idea if it was for the idea of smiling nicely or for the idea that such a simple action might be beyond his reach. Which it was, most of the time, though Sherlock seemed to rise to the occasion with frequency when Mrs. Hudson was involved.

“Ms. Smallwood… good to see you here tonight. Mycroft funding your intoxication, too?”

“That’s why I love him dearly. Well, that and he’s escorting me out tomorrow. He makes a stellar arm ornament when I’m milling about in public.”

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, but they stopped mid-roll because something his brain had been processing had reached the end of its calculations and demanded attention.

“What services?”

John and Alicia were used to non-sequiturs from Sherlock, so patiently waited for clarification.

“John! What services did Mycroft have you provide today?”

“Oh! Checking on Greg’s head. He gave it a nasty knock and I took a look at the damage. Nothing more than basic first aid business, but I can’t argue it was silly on your brother’s part. It was a good-sized bump and if Greg needed a trip to hospital it was best tended to quickly. Fortunately, that’s not the way things went, as you can see.”

“Hmmmm….”

“There’s not really a hum-worthy bit in any of that, but you carry on while I give Greg a wave.”

There was _much_ that was hum-worthy in Sherlock’s opinion, but he required more data to fully construct a testable hypothesis.

“John! Good to see you. What can I get for you?”

“Whatever Sherlock’s having looks promising. He’s sipped it and without a single word decrying it as a foul potion suitable only for the most amateurish of witches or some other nonsense, so it must be worth the risk.”

“Good choice. Just a moment…”

Sherlock continued to observe Greg while sipping his not-witch’s-brew and decided more information was in order.

“John, what do you know of this new bartender?”

“Not much. Just met him today.”

“That is woefully unhelpful.”

“I’m hurt. In any case, there’s a very easy way to learn more about him, you know.”

“Hmmmmm….”

John knew, without doubt, that Sherlock was not thinking of the obvious path of just making conversation with Greg and shared a look with Alicia to confirm she was thinking the same thing, as well as sharing his thought that Greg was a decent fellow, however, there would be no steps taken to warn him about whatever was to come because it was probably best for him to endure the experience that was curious Sherlock firsthand and at his earliest opportunity. Ripping off the plaster was always better than tugging on it it slowly and torturously.

“Just don’t set Greg on fire or something, Sherlock. Your uncle was fortunate to fill the job quickly and with a qualified person. A piece of burned bacon can’t be trusted to handle fine spirits. And here comes mine…”

“For you, John. Alicia, has your short now come to an end?”

“It most certainly has. Another for me and… Sherlock, are you ready for another or are you stretching out your imbibing experience.”

“Mycroft made two suggestions. This one only stripped the outer layer of epithelial cells from my esophagus. I suppose I should determine if his other suggestion is more or less debilitating.”

“Greg, you got that?”

“One Absolut martini and one Oban neat. I’m on it.”

Now it was Alicia observing Greg and deciding, not for the first time, that he was a good addition to the bar.

“I think Rudy made a brilliant choice with Greg. He knows his job and… it’s shallow to say, but he’s scandalously good-looking and that’s a draw for this crowd. Sells the illusion that this is a place the beautiful people congregate. Not that many here actually fit that description except in their own minds, but that’s what counts the most. So, we enjoy this round then set to business?”

Sherlock cut eyes at John who was frowning slightly in confusion.

“Business? I thought I was here for a free drink and to keep Sherlock from stealing his brother’s ties for some experiment or other.”

“Sherlock and I have business and then you two can engage in all the theft you’d like. My rates for friends pinched by the law are fairly reasonable.”

John looked over to Sherlock who was avoiding his eye by focusing on the last few sips of his whisky, then shrugged.

“Alright, then. Business before incarceration. At least the priorities are clear and, for once, not wrong way around. And this _is_ a nice whisky, I have to admit. Is it one of the astronomically expensive ones?”

Sherlock snorted and impatiently waited for his next drink. Which he felt he needed considering… whatever it might be he was considering that John had no knowledge of whatsoever.

“Mycroft refused me anything of monetary worth.”

“Then I’ll definitely have another! You would think that delivering flowers would be an easy job, but we had two stops today that nearly had me committing murder…”

Not even the mention of murder, one of his favorite topics, drew Sherlock’s attention away from alternately watching his brother and the new bartender. Mycroft was smiling again. Surreptitiously, though, when Geoff… Graham?... whoever was not looking his way. Though, whatever-is-his-name _did_ look Mycroft’s way, often when his brother was otherwise engaged with a customer. Interesting…

And what was interesting demanded to be explored in greater depth. Fortunately, that was a particular skill of his and one he was not at all hesitant about utilizing when his curiosity had been piqued…


	6. Chapter 6

“Indulge me, Gregory. This one time.”

Greg simply straightened his jacket and ran a hand through his hair, which he wasn’t ashamed to admit was mostly because Mycroft had a fascination with his hair and this would make him loony.

“Fellow deserves a good night’s rest after a day… night… of work and that’s my only thought right now.”

“You can rest with me. Gloriously.”

Greg’s laugh was exactly as disbelieving as the statement warranted and even Mycroft had to concede his companion was no fool. More’s the pity.

“Rest means sleep, not… whatever it is your debauched brain has decided is suitably synonymous.”

“The way your tongue glided across that phrase… I remember it gliding equally nimbly over something else that was far more appreciative than a pair of cold and unfeeling words.”

Shutting his locker and smiling happily at a sense of genuine satisfaction at a job well done tonight behind the bar, Greg turned, allowed Mycroft a brief glimpse of that satisfied grin and walked towards the door of the staff area without a single word, warm, cold or otherwise.

“Gregory…”

Mycroft’s long legs made short work of catching up to Greg who was merrily jogging towards freedom which, in this case, meant through a rear exit to the surprisingly clean alley where Rudy had told him he could park his motorcycle.

“It is utterly heartless how you deny me a further taste of your sumptuousness.”

“Man’s gotta sleep.”

“The sleep of the sexually-satiated is the most delectable of the breed.”

“I’ll have a wank before I nod off and let you know if you’re right.”

Mycroft’s frustrated toddler face was possibly his most adorable, which was a lot of adorableness for one man to have, in Greg’s opinion.

“You are unutterably evil.”

“It’s a burden I have to bear, but I choose to do it with grace. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

It was only then that Mycroft seemed to notice where they were and what Greg was standing next to.

“Ah…”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You would be mistaken. I was merely noting that the motorcycle I saw at the club that night was yours.”

“You noticed my bike?”

“It is not a common model.”

“True! Got it from an old mate of my dad’s. Back injury made it uncomfortable to ride anymore and I paid him a fair price for it. He’d had it a long time, though, but it runs beautifully. It’s nice, too, to have something different than what you typically see racing about. Not that there’s much racing to do in London traffic.”

“Then you should take it outside of London.”

“I do! When I have the time, I love taking it out for a long, fast run. I’m not certain how much time I’ll have for that now, with working here, but I suspect I can wedge in a good ride now and again.”

“Uncle strives to see his employees with an appropriate amount of recreational time to forestall stress-related lowering of their work quality.”

Mycroft’s voice had that quality of a person’s who was speaking with only one portion of their brain while the rest of it was elsewise engaged.

“That’s good, but I suspect he also just doesn’t want people being unhappy if there’s no need for it.”

“Perhaps… when are you scheduled off?”

“I… I actually don’t know. Rudy said the work diary had been scripted already but I forgot to ask what it was since I knew I was coming in tonight and tomorrow, regardless.”

“I will check.”

“Ok… if that makes you happy.”

“Then you will take me riding.”

“What?”

“We shall take ourselves out of London for a ride.”

“You have a bike?”

“I do not require one, do I?”

Greg gritted his teeth because the thought of Mycroft, nestled behind him, as they roared across the countryside was nothing short of fantastic.

“I suppose not.”

“Then the matter is settled. I will ascertain your next free day and see mine coincides so we might enjoy the time together. What a heady thing… the feral power of such a beast between my legs. And, of course, the novelty of riding a motorcycle.”

Now it was Greg’s frustrated toddler face being judged and Mycroft found himself utterly captivated by the sight.

“However… given you shall squire me about England, proper rest is likely a good idea. For tonight, at least. Do take care, Gregory, on your journey home…”

Mycroft stepped so close Greg was certain he could feel soft, warm tendrils of breath on his cheek.

“… I cannot bear the thought of your beauty being marred by accident or intent.”

With a kiss into the millimeter of air separating his lips and Greg’s skin, Mycroft began walking back into the bar, fingers trailing lightly along Greg’s arm as he took his leave.

“Fucker.”

Gorgeous, sexy, tantalizing fucker. Who would look amazing on a bike. Put that long, lean body in some leather and…

“Yeah, time to go.”

Greg mentally thanked whatever rats might be living in the alley for not commenting on his obviously wandering mind, tossed on his helmet and pushed his bike into the street to get it started and be on his way.

Though he didn’t take quite as quick a path to his flat as he might have, given his repeated declarations of needing his sleep. Mycroft was so strange. So posh and poised and so bloody lustful that it made those stories of hedonistic nobles seem more plausible than he’d believed. But he was also… how to phrase it? Not respectful, because that was laughable. But also not. Laughable that is. Mycroft was a loony, handsy twat, but he’d not really put his foot down to it all, had he. Shooed him off when he was being particularly bothersome but never just said anything plainly. Like no.

Maybe that was the problem. He didn’t _know_ what he wanted. Did he want to say hands off and that was that? Or keep the door open for something else? And was that being fair to Mycroft who might think that door was open when he was really just being led along by someone who, if he was honest, liked being the object of someone like Mycroft’s attention? He’d always been one to turn heads, and capitalized on that when the mood struck, but this was different. Felt different in a way he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t a class issue, the rich Mycroft Holmes being lusty over the rough boy Greg Lestrade. That much he felt certain. He’d actually had a few posher men try a go at him and it didn’t appeal. Or it did, but only for the duration of a drink, a fuck and nod when he or they left in the morning.

Mycroft was… Mycroft. All the bits and pieces that made up the man and his life taken in sum tallied to a very intriguing score. His problem was he had no idea of the scale on which that score should be measured and what he should do about any of it, even if he realized analyzing score and scale was a foolish act for this sort of thing. Oddly, or not, he wasn’t afraid of how it would impact his job. He suspected Rudy had a very good idea about what was going on and wouldn’t hold it against him if he told Mycroft firmly to find another player for his game.

If it _was_ a game. AARRHHGGG!!! Why couldn’t his brain work right! Maybe he was too tired to think right now and it was stupid to try. One thing he knew for certain… he wasn’t worried. There had been a few times when he was with someone or even just being chatted up when he actually felt a twinge of worry that if he wasn’t up for what they were offering it might go poorly for him. Mostly men but a few women, too, made him feel like he might have to get a bit forceful to walk away with his proverbial virtue intact. As much of an octopus Mycroft could be… never once did he genuinely feel uneasy. A good bartender has a solid ability to read people and he just didn’t sense anything about Mycroft that…

… that made it seem Mycroft valued his own desires over the wishes of the person he desired. He might be a pest but it was up to the dumb shit on this motorcycle to tell him to fuck off permanently or… not. And he wasn’t sure which one to choose.

__________

Greg took his time returning to his flat as he let his thoughts play through his brain. Fortunately, his job at the off license was quickly filled by the manager’s niece, so his offer of continuing to work until a replacement was found never had to be acted upon. This meant he could sleep through the morning and not look a fright when he stumbled into _Cynics_ again this afternoon.

Keying open the door to his flat, Greg stretched and shook away the last bit of lingering tension in his frame. Then stopped because… he could smell curry. Normally, that wouldn’t be a concern but, since he lived alone and he hadn’t heated any of the curry he had left from yesterday’s lunch, his flat shouldn’t be quite so aromatic.

“Finally.”

Whirling around, Greg stared wide eyed at Sherlock who was stretched out on the sofa, a book in his hand and evidence of Greg’s hoped-for curry breakfast in a bowl on the sofa table.

“Sherlock!”

“Your flat is scarcely a hovel. That I have not been attacked by rats or other pestilence of poverty is inexplicable.”

“What the fuck are you doing here? How… how did you _get_ in here?”

“Your locks cannot even meet the standard to be called rudimentary.”

“You picked the lock? That’s illegal.”

“Your point being?”

Greg opened his mouth, then shut it again, because there really wasn’t a point to be had since he’d done the same often enough to get into a mate’s flat for this reason or that. None of them particularly charitable, though, to be fair it was usually in retaliation for some uncharitable thing they’d first done to him. Usually.

“Why are you here, Sherlock? Don’t you have a new flat to lay about in?”

“Not at present, no. I… there are various details yet to be sorted.”

There was something in Sherlock’s voice and the fact he kept looking at the book and not at him that gave Greg at least an inkling on what those details were.

“John playing hard to get?”

“I have no idea to what you are referring.”

“Alright, then. What’s John doing or not doing that’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“This is not about John.”

“That bad?”

“John is perfectly free to ignore… whatever he chooses to ignore.”

“John didn’t realize you were offering… anything you might have been offering.”

“I _offered_ nothing.”

“Ok, you presented a fact that you were going to lease a flat with two bedrooms and he didn’t recognize your lack of offer for the offer it actually was. Got it.”

“Ridiculous. In any case, I am not here to talk about John.”

“Oh? Just here to eat my food and put your dirty shoes on my sofa?”

“Your sofa is far dirtier than my shoes and the curry was decidedly sub par.”

“You ate all of it, though, I notice.”

“The portion was small and all was required for a thorough assessment of its quality. In any case, I am not here to discuss your culinary barbarism.”

“Fair, though I can’t see any reason whatsoever for you to be here at all.”

“Mycroft.”

“Is your brother.”

“Who is he to _you_?”

Oh. That was unexpected. Or perhaps not. Sherlock was supposed to be an observant sort and even when Mycroft was being professional there were still moments here and there where… if you _were_ the observant sort you might notice and wonder what’s what. However, it was clear that Mycroft would rather not have certain information make its way to Sherlock’s ears, so let the deflection begin…

“One of the people I work with. The most ludicrous, I must admit, but he’s good at his job.”

“And?”

“Ummmm…. can’t think of anything, really. He’s been surprisingly helpful for all his looniness. Got me sorted so I started on the right foot and definitely keeps the guests feeling noticed and appreciated.”

“That is useless.”

“Not really. When people feel comfortable and well regarded, they become regular customers and that’s important for a bar to stay profitable.”

“I was not referring to that. Why does he smile at you?”

“Because frowning might signal to patrons that something’s wrong and that’s not something you want to do in a business?”

“Infuriatingly uninformative, though, I will credit that you are not as stupid as I predicted…”

“I’d say thank you, but I’ll settle for fuck you, instead.”

“… however, your dodging of the question is suspicious in its own right.”

Shit.

“Not really because I’ve not dodged anything. The fact you don’t like my answers, for whatever reason, doesn’t reflect on me.”

“But it does.”

“It really doesn’t.”

“Mycroft does not smile.”

“I’ve seen him do it, so that’s a lie.”

“Very well. He _often_ smiles, but it is as fake as the lauds he offers the various government drones that infest the bar. That is not the case when he smiles at you.”

Now, that was interesting…

“Can’t say I have any basis to comment on that as I scarcely know your brother.”

Which is completely true, though the word ‘know’ is subject to interpretation.

“I am not convinced of that.”

“I’ve known Mycroft for only a few days; I’m not sure how much knowing you believe can be packed into that short a time.”

All true and feel free to scrutinize me like an accountant looking over my dodgy taxes.

“ _Something_ is going on and I want to know what.”

“I don’t know what that could be… what you see is what you get. Mycroft and I work together and that’s a very new thing.”

Still all true.

“Beyond that?”

“I have no idea what you want from me, Sherlock, but I literally started working at the bar a couple of days ago and I’ve never set foot in the place before the moment I walked in and convinced your uncle to give me the job. Mycroft’s a piece of work, that’s true, but he’s good at his job from what I’ve observed and it’s nice to have someone my age on the floor. Already we chat a bit and have enjoyed an after-hours drink to celebrate a successful day… maybe we can be friends. Honestly…”

Ok, this bit wouldn’t be honest but fuck it.

“… I haven’t given it a lot of thought what with focusing, really, on the fifty thousand other things I have to focus on for the new job. That’s foremost on my mind right now, not who may or may not be smiling at me in some way you think is suspicious.”

“You are hiding something.”

“A lot of things, probably, though it may simply be that I have no reason to talk to you about them yet since they haven’t come up in conversation.”

Sherlock scowled and fixed a steely gaze on Greg who was staring back with an ‘believe me or not but that’s the truth’ expression reminiscent of the one he gave his mum when she rightly accused him of sneaking a bird into one of the empty rooms at the hotel for a little sheets-rumpling fun. It hadn’t worked particularly well on her but Sherlock wasn’t near the league of mothers who had years of experience weighing the words of rascally sons.

“Your answer is rife with possibilities for obfuscation.”

“That sounds impressive. Well done me.”

“It was not a compliment.”

“I’ll take it as one anyway. Tell me, though, Sherlock… what’s your goal here?”

“Goal?”

“It might just be curiosity but it might be something else and I just want to know why you’re digging for information when… well, it really doesn’t matter much, wouldn’t you say?”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened but Greg wasn’t to know it was because Sherlock didn’t have a good answer for that question. He had answers, plural, but it was difficult to know which were valid and which were more excuses than reasons. Mycroft was… difficult. Ridiculous, meddlesome, licentious, supercilious and a host of other negative qualities that made him a bother day in and day out. His behavior concerning this new bartender was baffling given his established norms and… yes, curiosity was part of the equation but other unnamed variables remained. None of it sat well in his mind.

“I will not argue that your impact on my life is scarcely measurable beyond serving me a drink, however, the combined effect of you and my brother in a location I frequent is worthy of my scrutiny.”

“Ok, that’s true, but it’s still not terribly important. As you said, my impact on your life doesn’t go beyond that of any bar patron, so there’s not much for you to scrutinize.”

“I spoke to your former employer.”

Couldn’t fault the lad’s initiative.

“Which one? I’ve had lots.”

“The manager of the off license. The report was not as lackluster as I expected, however, I did learn you have a taste for… the sordid.”

Which I wear as a badge of honor, I’ll have you know. Though it begs the question as to what and how much you _do_ know…

“Define sordid.”

“You enjoy drink, violence and sex.”

Nebulous and unspecified. Perfect.

“I do enjoy a few or more than a few drinks when I have a mind for it. If, by violence, you mean I’ve had my share of dust ups, that’s true. And, yeah, I have a healthy appreciation of sex.”

Very healthy, in the case of your brother.

“With men and women.”

“Doesn’t matter to me which it is as long as I’ve got the urge and they’re willing. Bisexuals aren’t myths, you know.”

“I know that. It simply…”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock’s brain felt as if it was infested with worms. Then, as if drawn by a steady rhythm, they began to crawl in a single direction.

“Opposites.”

“What?”

They were opposites. Mycroft presented a pompous, aloof front but had a wild streak that not even Uncle fully knew about. This bartender presented as wild and rough but had a mature, professional streak that fit him with a job that many could not manage to the standards required of it. Intriguing…

“Nothing. Ultimately, my questions are not answered and the fault is wholly yours.”

“Given it cost me my breakfast, I’d say my debt is paid and you are free to fuck off to wherever you plan to sleep tonight.”

“I have.”

“What?”

“I was evicted from my current flat and the one I hope to lease is not ready for occupancy until Monday.”

“Today is Wednesday.”

“I take milk with my tea. Ensure you have a ready supply.”

Was he asleep? This certainly felt like a nightmare.

“What? No. You’ve got a brother with a suite of rooms, an uncle with something somewhere that warrants a housekeeper and you most certainly have access to money for a room at a respectable hotel.”

Sherlock rummaged in his pocket, found a crumpled £5 note and tossed it next to the curry stained bowl on the sofa table.

“I do not, in any manner, consider this hovel respectable so that is more than sufficient to secure my lodging. Now, if you are done interrupting my reading, I hope to finish this before I meet John for breakfast. Oh, and you need bread.”

“I had half a loaf!”

“And now you do not. There was an atypical mold form growing under a refrigerated case at your off license. I inoculated the bread and other substances with it to determine its preferred growth medium for further culturing.”

Definitely a nightmare.

“Where is it?”

“I would advise taking care reaching into the leftmost cupboard.”

Greg knew it was impossible to crush someone into dust using only the power of his mind, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

“Use that five quid for bread and milk. And don’t inoculate either with _anything_ or you’ll do without, you bastard.”

“I do not visit shops. I shall, instead, take what I require from the club’s kitchens.”

Said while repocketing his funds and smirking smugly, which Greg found made him wonder if it was too late to take Mycroft up on his bed-sharing offer.

“Given you uncle pays for that, it’s theft.”

“ _Given_ I have a 1.5% share in the club itself, I beg to differ.”

“That’s… fairly minor.”

Or not, depending on how lucrative the club was, which Greg suspected was _very_.

“Alas, that is the case. However, Uncle believes mandating I sit through various financial reviews will engender in me some form of fiscal sobriety. In that he is mistaken, however, that figure is sufficient, with various other investment funds, to see me supplied with housing and supplies for my experiments.”

Independently wealthy and with family that makes certain it stays that way. Some people had all the luck. However, some people were also Sherlock so they were bastards, which was a punishing penalty to pay for that cash.

“Lucky you. Some of us have to work for food and rent so, if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting some sleep before I have to set to that work again today.”

“Do you plan to shower?”

“Why?”

“I… you might wish to avoid the shampoo.”

Fuck today. And every day until Wednesday, apparently.

“You _cannot_ tell me mold grows in shampoo.”

“It does not. Especially in shampoo that horrible in aroma.”

“What! It’s nice. Smells of… the tropics.”

“At least three components of that tropical scent shame are carcinogenic.”

“No…”

“I will procure a monograph for you to read on the subject.”

Today’s fucking is foregoing the lube.

“How deadly is scalp cancer?”

“How greatly do you value your brain?”

And adding in a few bites for good measure.

“I’m… I’m going to the shops tomorrow.”

“Excellent. I shall leave a list of things I require while I live here.”

“You can use what I have.”

“Do you have trichloroehtylene?”

“Ummm… I don’t know, do I?”

“You will by tomorrow. Goodnight, Graham. Or, should I say, good morning. If you snore, I will take it as an assault on my mental health and respond accordingly.”

Greg shook his head, then walked with heavy step towards his bedroom. One Holmes at work and another at home. Was he cursed? Repaying a debt from a past life? Inevitably, when Mycroft wheedled him into having a drink tomorrow, he’d make it two and of the very good stuff. Somehow, he had no doubt it was going to be a necessity for his continued survival…


	7. Chapter 7

Dear lord…

“Greg… you look dreadful. Is everything alright?”

Greg smiled at Rudy, though with a luster not nearly what he could muster on a day with rest and relaxation under his belt.

“Well, I’ll put it this way. Sherlock is now living with me.”

That Rudy gasped and had to reach out to a nearby chair to steady himself highlighted the severity of the situation.

“What? You poor boy, have a seat. I’ll buzz for some coffee. Why on Earth is Sherlock living with you? Don’t tell me he’s been evicted again.”

“He’s been evicted again.”

“I asked you not to tell me. How can I continue my blissful fantasy existence when you shove harsh reality in my face? But, since he’s shoved it _your_ face already, I can understand you wanting to spread the misery. Coffee will be out in a moment. So, let me guess, he scarcely let you have more than a half-hour of sleep before interrupting you with this or that nonsense and depleted your entire building of hot water taking a seventeen-hour shower.”

“What gave it away? The circles under my eyes or my greasy hair?”

“Feel free to partake of all the hot water I have to offer and I’ll bring you some concealer for those circles. Can’t look a fright for the patrons. Unless it’s Halloween, but we’ve awhile to prepare for that. Did Sherlock give any reason for being evicted this time?”

Rudy smiled at the young man bringing out a pot of coffee and hoped it was as strong as they usually made it. Greg looked like he need more than wind in his sails. The poor boy needed a typhoon.

“No, just went on about the inability of people to recognize genius. His new flat will be ready soon, so I only have him as a boarder for a few days but I’m already of a mind to send his previous landlord a bottle of something good to help him wash the memory of a certain tenant out of his brain. Bastard ate my curry!”

“Let me guess… it was supposed to be breakfast.”

“I could hear its sweet song all the way home.”

“Those takeaway containers in the refrigerator… vixens, one and all. Alright, drink all of that, have a shower and we’ll see you tidied and presentable before you’re on the clock. And… have my apology for my family, not that it’s worth a shilling. I have no idea why you’re a Holmes magnet, but you’re already attracted two of the most nonsensical. There are more, though, so don’t accept any invitations for family dinner. I doubt you’d manage many more of our sorry lot infesting your life like bedbugs.”

Rudy gave Greg a commiserative pat on the back then went about his own business which now, apparently, included finding out why Sherlock was evicted and if there were any legal proceedings in the works that he’d need to address with an appropriately-sized cheque. James was useless for that. Oh, he could script a cheque but he had no feel for leveraging that cheque to properly purchase a measure of good behavior from his son. Sherlock… and Mycroft, too… they were cuckoos in James’s nest. Or, rather, James was a cuckoo in the Holmes nest. Honest, kind with a practical mind and earnest, yet slightly awkward nature. Oh well, what was a brother to do but step in when needed and tend to chicks that might need a bit of special handling. Or in the case of Sherlock and Mycroft, a muzzle and straitjacket.

__________

Greg took a long drink of his coffee and marveled at how mere liquid could contain a veritable mountain of pure caffeine since he was sure he could immediately feel it surge through his veins and kick his blood cells in their teeny arses. A few cups of this and he would be dancing on the tables. So, one cup, maybe two, and a hot shower. That way he wouldn’t be giving the customers an unexpected show but _would_ be awake, clean and ready to serve up whatever their hearts desired.

The first cup went down Greg’s throat almost without notice but the next he savored a bit more slowly as he multi-tasked and checked his station, making note of what he had to ready for his shift. The third, much-debated cup accompanied him to the staff room where he slung his backpack into his locker, grabbed his towel and stepped into the adjacent shower area to let long blasts of hot water finish the job making him fully human.

“Gregory!”

Aw shite…

“Stay away from the shower, Mycroft.”

“I will not! Someone must console you after your harrowing experience.”

Double shite.

“Your brother kipping on my sofa isn’t exactly harrowing.”

Though it’s a close thing.

“You do not have to maintain a brave façade with me, Gregory. If anyone knows the full nightmare of cohabitating with Sherlock, it is certainly me. Here, let me massage away your tension.”

Greg slapped at the long-fingered hands reaching into the shower though he did acknowledge that those fingers could probably do a fantastic job of giving a massage. A full-body massage. A naked, sweaty full-body…

“Stop trying to grope me you perv!”

Fuck but his hands fit perfectly around this plump, appreciative arse.

“Oh, was that you?”

“Funny. Why don’t you make yourself useful and see if the kitchen will do me another cup of coffee?”

My self-promised two has now fully been tossed to the wind. Hope the tables can hold my weight…

“Coffee? Ugh… such a bitter thing for one sweet as you.”

“I’ve had your brother haranguing me all day while adding things to my shopping list that I can’t even read let alone know where to buy. Right now, coffee is my best mate. In fact, see if they can do me a full pot. I’ll have it down my neck before we open and likely be wanting more before the first customer has a seat at the bar.”

“If for no other reason, this should convince you to stay with me and share my bed. Let Sherlock infest your flat while you enjoy your every pleasure satisfied in my care.”

“Except the pleasure of sleep, privacy, peace of mind…”

“Pish tosh… such banal necessities you are weighing against the luxury of incomparable sexual satisfaction and the exhausted sleep such produces in those sufficiently blessed to experience it.”

“I like banal. Rather a lot, actually.”

“Villainous. Positively villainous.”

“No, just someone who isn’t willing to give into your nonsense just to avoid your brother for a few days. Sorry you don’t understand prizing integrity over convenience.”

“That… I…”

Greg grinned slyly because he knew he had hit a big thick nerve. However, the fact it was a nerve said something. Exactly what, he didn’t precisely know, but it wasn’t a mark on the negative side of Mycroft’s ledger.

“Rethinking? That’s good. I’d hate to think the person I believed did have an honorable core, despite his ridiculousness, had fooled me utterly.”

Greg let this long-fingered touch go unswatted as it was a gentle one, trailing lightly up his arm and ended with small squeeze of his shoulder.

“Coffee, you said?”

“Please. We can switch to something more to your taste after we close.”

He didn’t need to see Mycroft’s face to know a smile was spreading across it.

“Oh, I suppose I can wait the years and years until then.”

“That’s kind of you. Anything I should know for tonight? Are we entertaining the Queen of Sheba?”

“Yes, actually. She is currently dating King Solomon, but it is a touch hush hush at the moment, so not a word to the tabloids.”

The pinch that preceded Mycroft leaving the shower wasn’t on Greg’s shoulder but he was alright with that. Couldn’t expect Mycroft to change completely, now could he? And, dear god but that man knew how to pinch an arse and make it worth the erection he was beginning to sport. That took talent! Definitely had to tip his hat to talent that robust…

__________

“Two St. James Single Cask.”

“Year? I think we’ve got a couple.”

“Didn’t specify.”

“Alright then.”

Rudy watched Greg work and felt almost giddy at the sight. It could be a nightmare finding someone with the skill and drive to work here and Andrew’s departure had come as a bit of a surprise, to him and Andrew both, so he didn’t have the usual extended window he counted on to interview and research candidates.

“Stop ogling Gregory.”

Or vet them for withstanding Mycroft.

“And steal your act? I would never!”

Mycroft scowled at Rudy who looked positively offended by suggestion.

“Most amusing.”

“Not as amusing as Sherlock being his flat mate.”

“That is _not_ amusing.”

“It really is. But, Greg can manage.”

“He should not have to manage. The weather is not harsh. Sherlock can sleep in the park.”

“I don’t have enough money to pay the costs of him destroying one of our city parks because he’s feeling put out. You’ve got an extra bedroom up there. Show your brother some hospitality.”

“That is a laughable thought.”

“Why are you here anyway? I thought you were squiring Ms. Alicia on an excursion tonight.”

“I am, however, when I heard of Gregory’s plight I, of course, took steps to verify he was still mentally capable of performing his duties.”

“A good dose of Sherlock can be brain rotting, I concede, however, I fail to see how his brain could be properly assessed in the shower.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth and growled in a manner that delighted Rudy utterly.

“Are you spying on Gregory?”

“No, I am spying on _you_. When you intersect it is rather a package deal.”

“Unseemly.”

“I get bored. Anyway, how are preparations for Friday’s function.”

“I hope to poison them all.”

“Nice thing to say about paying customers.”

“The media. Foul creatures.”

“You like that nice woman who does those food columns.”

“Fine. She shall be spared my wrath. The rest shall learn the fate of dissemblers and vulgarians throughout history.”

“At least they have plenty of banknotes for wiping away their tears of agony. Besides being an angel of the apocalypse, how goes things?”

“The chef has threatened to murder our beef supplier.”

“Again?”

“I believe the point of contention is… oh, I failed to pay his shouting any heed.”

“Likely wise. What will this cost me?”

“No more than a drinkable bottle of whisky the two can deplete while arguing during their monthly settling of accounts.”

“More than worth the investment. Besides, as you say, it is the media we’re hosting, and they are far more concerned with the quantity of their meal than the quality. Drop a large enough slap of beef in front of them, with twice that mass of potatoes and they’ll be happy.”

“Easily done. The remainder of the preparations are in hand, also.”

“Good. And here, looking lovely and brilliant as usual, is your companion for the evening. Welcome, Ms. Alicia. Kindly keep this one out as late as you’d like. In fact, keep him out long enough for me to toss his tat in the skip and get his suite rented so I can recover some of my losses from cleaning both his and Sherlock’s messes over the years.”

“Wonderful! He’ll need a job, too, I suppose, and we’re down a clerk at my firm.”

Mycroft clucked his tongue so loudly a server passing with a full tray of drinks nearly had a high-potency disaster in surprise.

“If that is your comedy troupe audition, I will, with no small sadness, inform you that you are both bollocks.”

Alicia laughed and linked her arm with Mycroft’s, giving it a tug to start him moving towards the door. They needed to get an early start and for several reasons. First, she wanted a quick nibble beforehand and was dying for Thai food. Second, she planned on lingering quite awhile at the exhibition and savoring all fun to be had. Lastly, there was a doubt level of naught that Mycroft wanted to be here when the bar closed and for his own reasons. Who was named Greg. And looking stunning as ever smiling brightly behind the bar…

__________

Savoring a forkful of the most wonderful Thai food in London, Alicia watched Mycroft watch the other customers at the small eatery while he absentmindedly toyed with the food on his plate.

“See anyone interesting?”

“A few, mostly those who are mired in various situations not to their satisfaction. For instance, that man with the marginally-acceptable green tie. I feel he is not long for his position in the marketing industry.”

“Oh, where’s he off to, then?”

“A return to school. Not a horrid decision for someone of his age who has realized his chosen career is cutting strips from his soul, a sliver per day, leaving him lessened with each passing moment.”

“Very poetic. Given you’re feeling somewhat colorful, want to tell me what’s going on between you and Greg?”

Might as well leap into the deep end of the pool. It was usually best with Mycroft because he would gladly chase you around the shallow end until you tired of his distractions and gave up swimming for whatever information it was you wanted in the first place.

“Firstly, I am not behaving colorfully. Secondly, why would you believe there was something _to_ go on between us?”

“I’m not blind. Or deaf, for that matter. He’s caught your eye and I think you’ve definitely caught his. I admit, he’d catch anyone’s eye, but you usually can hide your lust a bit better than I’ve observed and… just curious.”

“I have no reason to satisfy your snoopery.”

“You actually do because you know I can make your life hell on Earth if I have a mind for it.”

“I might consider your threat a potent one, however, Sherlock is currently living with Gregory and I fully believe that the amount of hell that is creating on this Earth leaves no room for more.”

“Oh god… poor Greg.”

“Quite.”

“I suspected Sherlock was on the edge of getting a boot up his arse by his current landlord, but I thought he’d hold on long enough for his new one to look over the rental contract I amended and agree to it.”

“How much additional rent will it cost?”

“None, but there is a rather strict clause in there about what does and does not constitute standard diminishments to condition which Sherlock… or someone… will have to fund if repairs are needed. I put that in there for reassurance, I admit, because Sherlock had already met with the landlady and… well, you can imagine. He went to Greg’s, though, that’s interesting. Seems as if I’m not the only one noticing things between you and him.”

“Balderdash.”

“Sherlock doesn’t leap that readily onto strangers unless they have something he wants. Like information or answers to questions. So back to my _original_ question…”

“Tedious.”

“You know you’re proving that there _is_ something between you and Greg, right? You’re failing utterly to hide it and that’s fairly damning, actually. You’re usually much more skilled at hiding things, so you understand my curiosity.”

Mycroft snarled and stabbed at his food a moment before sighing loudly. He _had_ given away the game, hadn’t he…

“I met Gregory prior to Uncle hiring him.”

“Alright, I thought that was possible. Details.”

“Is corroboration of your hypothesis not sufficient?”

“You’ve corroborated nothing and you know it. Moving on…”

“Harpy. Very well, I… I met Gregory at a club.”

“Oh… not one of those that you and I sometimes visit where it’s terribly lovely and the music is beautiful but not a single table is broken in a fight no matter how much it would liven up the place, I take it.”

“I desired something more… vital.”

“You do enjoy your vital experiences. Let me guess… pounding music, throat-scorching liquor, loads of sweaty people dancing like they’re summoning a demon and your nose fills with the smell of cigarettes and sex every single time you breathe.”

“Gloriously so.”

Alicia grinned and gave Mycroft a mental pat on the back. His family wasn’t precisely strait-laced because no family that could boast Rudy and Sherlock as members, but they did tend to mingle with the more well-to-do debauchers and sybarites. Her friend, though, had a thirst for something different now and again and it was to his credit that he indulged that side of him so it didn’t rankle. AND that he indulged with his head properly on his shoulders so he didn’t end up beaten bloody in some alley.

“Tell all.”

“I fucked him in an alley.”

Maybe rethinking the head-on-shoulders part.

“Uhhh….”

“Gregory was… he filled my eyes the moment I saw him. Dancing with a feral abandon, the erotic charge of the music and press of bodies on the dance floor lighting his face with the most beckoning expression, though he only seemed to be beckoning a god to descend and grace him with a divine, carnal touch. I never thought I would taste his lusciousness again and, in truth, I felt the lesser for it.”

Back to poetic. Her Mycroft was feeling a lot about this new bartender and it was all _very_ intriguing…

“He _is_ a sexy man.”

“Sexy? What a staggering understatement. He embodies the fullness of masculinity in the most effortless of ways. To watch him… it is intoxicating. And I _was_ intoxicated. By his beauty, by his virility, by the pure pleasure of sensation glowing in his eyes…”

Very intriguing, indeed.

“Well, when he was kitted up in his club gear, I would expect…”

“Balderdash. He was in naught but faded jeans and a green t-shirt but that only emphasized that the majesty of the man was from _him_ and not the decorations he wore upon his body.”

The poetry was flowing hard and fast tonight. Could it be… Mycroft was a lusty fellow, but could he actually be… smitten?

“And… you usually prefer men who stimulate you physically, but also don’t offend you intellectually. Greg passed muster, I take it.”

Mycroft laughed a freer, more honest laugh than Alicia had heard from him in a long time.

“We scarcely shared a handful of words for me to render any judgement. His eyes, though… even with the fires of abandon burning in them, the showed… the spark. That particular spark a person sports when they have a clever mind, an intellect, even if they lack much in the way of formal education. Of course, I could have been terribly wrong in that but, at the time, I acted on impulse and urge, letting instinct guide me.”

“And since? You’ve had the chance to talk to him now and…”

“He challenges me. We converse and I fail to feel even the slightest bit of disappointment at his ability to engage me. I dread the time he declares our words at an end and eagerly anticipate when we can, again, share our thoughts and opinions. He is ignorant on many matters but quickly absorbs new information I impart and offers perspectives and analyses that are… it is easy to hear the same song from the vultures in our strata. To hear a new song is unbelievably refreshing.”

“And does he… is Greg hearing a song he likes, too?”

“That is very much the question. I cannot discern… he denies me at every turn, yet I sense his longing. Gregory reveled in our intimacy but holds me, now, at distance.”

Because you behave like a hormonal berk.

“Perhaps you’re coming on a bit strong.”

“Nonsense.”

“Much sense. I admit freely and fully I don’t know much about him, but what I’ve seen… it’s this way, you show one side of yourself to the clientele at the bar, though you have more to you than that. Greg probably shows one side of himself at the various clubs he visits, but he has more to him than that, too. Don’t judge him based on one quick fuck where you both thought you’d never see each other again. Fun’s fun when you know that’s all it is but… it’s very different now.”

“I fail to see why.”

Because you, like me, don’t live in the world most people do.

“Things _are_ different now, Mycroft. Maybe you can do as you please, because you have the money, status and connections for it. Greg doesn’t. He has his fun when it’s not work hours but when he’s on the job, he has to be mindful of that. Honestly, I think he’s genuinely a respectable person who goes a bit wild now and again, but takes his work seriously. He’s gotten his hands on an excellent position and isn’t going to jeopardize it.”

“Uncle Rudy wouldn’t care in…”

“Greg doesn’t know that. You might tell him that and maybe he’s starting to realize that Rudy is a fairly unique person, but a boss is a boss at the end of the day and if the work suffers, the person isn’t long for their job. Besides, Greg takes pride in what he does. That much is blindingly obvious.”

“I do _not_ impede his work.”

“Maybe you don’t think you do but have you asked? Or wondered if he’s impacting yours because if a new hire causes problems, again, it’s them that’s going to be sacked for making matters a mess. Beyond that… I can’t imagine, actually, it’s different for a man, so… as a woman I’ve had opportunities for a bit of fun with some fellow and it was nice, enjoyed myself a great deal, but that didn’t mean I wanted another go with him. Or that he now had some license to use me when he had a mind for it. We had a mutually-agreeable time, but that doesn’t mean he can expect anything else of me unless I want it when he’s giving me the nudge. Then… well, it becomes a question of respect. Does he respect me or doesn’t he? His actions after I say no mean everything.”

“Gregory… has not said no. Not specifically.”

“Then you assume it’s no until he says, _specifically_ , otherwise.”

“And what do I do in the interim?”

“Be respectful, be decent. It seems, and I’m being perfectly honest, that you get along well when you’re not being a prat, so try making a friend for once in your damned life. And, close your gob. I made _you_ a friend, it wasn’t the other way around. Further, it took you a solid three months to realize I was chatting with you because I found you interesting and not for some other evil reason you made up in your thick head.”

“Months and months without Gregory’s delectable form in my arms…”

“You’re not convincing me you value him at all beyond using his body for your pleasure.”

Mycroft scowled darkly but it was more directed inward since his brain was traitorously pointing out how Alicia’s words supported his earlier rebuke from Gregory himself.

“That is patently untrue. But, I suppose that is that is the aspect on which I am fixating for the very reason I freely access the other components of the man that delight me so. His humor, his cleverness, his warmth and collegiality…”

“That’s a lot to enjoy and admire about a person.”

“Hence my… intrigue.”

“You mispronounced infatuation.”

“Rubbish.”

“Mycroft Holmes, you silly tit. Just admit you’re feeling something for him and it’s confusing you endlessly, which is why you’re behaving strangely, even for you. Which is a lot of strange by anyone’s measure.”

“You are hallucinating.”

“Why hide it? I mean… I understand you not wanting to have that conversation with Greg because of how you met and how little time you’ve had to actually get to know each other, but it’s alright to admit it to yourself. And me. Which is even more important because someone has to keep a rope around your neck to give your head a tug and drag it out of your arse when it’s needed.”

“How vulgar.”

“Yet true. I’ve seen you lust after more men than I can count, act on that lust more times than I can count but I’ve never seen you look upon someone you lusted after as more than a body to enjoy. Greg’s different, isn’t he? Different in a very specific and very good way.”

Mycroft fidgeted in his chair which was all the victory Alicia actually needed, but any more he wished to add to her trophy case would be accepted gladly.

“I will concede…”

“Yes?”

“Gregory has worth far beyond his exquisite beauty. It would be my joy and honor to come better to know the man as a person.”

“Smitten. I knew it. And, no… just don’t. Eat your food and delight in the fact that you have me on your side to, just perhaps, put you on a path to not fuck this up completely. Have you ever been a date? A real one. And don’t lie to me because I’ll know and make you pay a terrible price for it.”

She would, too.

“I have escorted many men out for the evening.”

“I know that. My question is, have you escorted them for any reason other than you felt it was necessary or fair trade for shagging them senseless later on?”

“Is there a convenient chart I can consult for this interrogation?”

“Confirming you’ve never been on a date simply to enjoy the company of the person you’re with. That should be the first thing we work on.”

Mycroft simply glared at his smiling dinner companion and wondered if he glared hard enough, she would vaporize into some form of mist.

“I am not presenting Gregory with flowers and sweets.”

“Flowers are a maybe. Leaning more towards a nice plant he can tend and think of you while he does it. Sweets… I have no doubt he likes them, but he deserves something more unique. Maybe a nice hamper of meats and cheeses and breads to enjoy on a picnic. With you. Oh! And a bottle of wine. Nothing costly, though. Inexpensive and flavorful. Something to make him smile and have a hearty sip after a bite of delicious open-air cuisine.”

“That is…”

Not the most abhorrent idea. He was accompanying Gregory on a motorcycle excursion, was he not? One could affix a hamper to a motorcycle, most likely, filled with delicious morsels to enjoy when a particularly scenic vista presented itself. If he was honest with himself, never a pleasant thing, he had made the mental commitment to romance Gregory, yet had done little to act upon that commitment, furthering the perception of him as a shallow, sexually-fixated man. Which, if one was so inclined, could be viewed as… a bit not good.

And that was not how he wished to be viewed. Normally, the situation would not vex him so, given each participant in his various escapades were fully aware of the rules of the game being played and enjoyed. However, those rules _had_ changed with Gregory readily adapting to them. He, however, had not. Frankly, the tactical misstep was inexcusable and something he would predict only for the feeble-witted.

Or inexperienced. Which would never, ever… normally… describe him. But, seeing as how he had bestowed permission for unspoken honesty, he had never before felt an appreciable urge to pursue something other than sexual until he met Gregory. For an actual relationship, he was nothing less than a novice.

“I… Gregory has a motorcycle.”

“I know. It’s smashing. Why is that relevant?”

“He and I will take it soon for a lengthy jaunt. I suppose that would offer opportunity to elevate matters to the level of a… date.”

Alicia resisted the desire to smack her ear a few times in the time-honored tradition of those who absolutely could not believe what they just heard.

“You? On a motorcycle?”

“Yes, and I am most eager for the experience.”

“I want photographs and do not think for a moment you can forget and make that claim sound believable.”

“Your nosiness is decidedly off-putting.”

“Wrong, but you continue to think that, if it helps. However…you’re very right about the rest of it. This has brilliant date potential. Is it soon? Your unsavory, sordid self won’t last being a gentleman for long and I’d hate for you to chase away Greg before you get the chance to show him you’re not entirely a sex pervert. Just mostly one.”

Mycroft waved off Alicia’s cheeky grin and put a large forkful of food into his mouth. Delicious, but not as delicious as the idea of… dating Gregory. The drinks they shared were wildly enjoyable so the sharing of a meal would be sublime. And nights at the cinema or theatre. Gregory was an intelligent, curious man… he would surely appreciate a museum excursion such as was on tonight’s agenda. So many things they could enjoy together that was not his warm and comfortable bed.

Very well… he had failed to capitalize on his previous commitment but he would not fail again. He would not self-deceive and say he did not long for Gregory’s incomparable body, for he did, but that body accompanied the rest of the man for whom he also longed. A pleasurable ancillary benefit, should he prove worthy. Should… ha! Would. _Would_ prove worthy. Now was not the time for doubt or hesitancy. He had a date to plan but planning was something of a personal strength.

All he had to do was learn to ride a motorcycle. And acquire clothing appropriate for riding said motorcycle once he had acquired the skill. A minor matter, at best.

Zeus above, please do not let him perish in a motorcycle accident before he could again entwine his body with Gregory’s. It would be damnably unfair and no supervisor in the afterlife would be spared even a mote of his wrath should this injustice come to pass…


	8. Chapter 8

Greg smiled when he heard behind him a seat being pulled away from the bar because only one person would be able to enter after closing and have the cheekiness to expect service.

“What’ll it be, Mycroft?”

“Oh… I’ve a mind for something different.”

“How different?”

“I shall not abide a paper umbrella, a layering of more than two layers or anything green.”

“Not a problem.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the selection of spirits Greg quickly pulled out and it rose higher when a respectable absinthe was swirled about in a chilled whisky glass and lost its few remaining drops down Greg’s throat.

“Muddling sugar with… bitters. Ah… very good. And something I have not sampled in a goodly while.”

Greg finished the drink with twist of lemon peel and presented it Mycroft.

“One Sazerac for you, good sir. Enjoy.”

Mycroft prided himself on the ability to watch a drink being made and knowing without taking a sip if it would please him or not. This was definitely poised to please. Gregory’s technique had been exemplary. And his mouth happily concurred.

“Delicious. Perfectly prepared.”

“Thank you. Great drink from an interesting city. I _have_ been to New Orleans, truth be told, though I have no memory of it.”

“Dear me, that indicates rather a lot of alcohol consumption. Was it Mardi Gras?”

“It was! But I was three years old, so that’s mostly why I don’t recall a single thing about it. My parents were tired of taking the standard holidays one expects for a nice English couple, so they threw caution to the wind and did something bold. Apparently, from the photographs I’ve seen, they took boldness somewhat to its limit.”

“Heavens…”

“I’m very proud of them.”

“As you should be. I have never visited the city, however, I cannot deny its bacchanalian appeal. And this is a stellar drink for a night such as this.”

“Happy to hear that. I aim to please.”

Mycroft bit back the response that leapt with abandon to the tip of his tone. Then bit back the thoughts that ran through his head as he contemplated what the tip of his tongue longed to do to the man gifting him with a softly satisfied smile.

“You have succeeded. Given you are not blackened by scorch marks or lost in a fog of insanity, I take it there were no undue catastrophes here tonight?”

“Not a one! A few due catastrophes, but that’s to be expected. And your evening out?”

“Most entertaining. The British Museum ventures, at times, into less intellectually-stimulating presentations so as to ‘broaden their appeal’…”

Greg could hear the air quotes quite clearly in Mycroft’s words. It was positively, perfectly Mycroft.

“… though this one was most exceptional.”

“Good! Where’d you go after?”

“There was a private cocktail affair for benefactors of the museum, of which my family may boast, so we suffered some decidedly subpar wine, though a rather inspired selection of cheeses. It was not entirely a dreadful ordeal, though I could easily have done without several of the more burdensome attendees.”

“Good cheese can make just about anything bearable, in my opinion...”

Our picnic hamper shall overflow with them, rest assured.

“… I have to admit, though, a… can’t say it’s a fondness, but more a nostalgia for subpar wine. Mostly because what my mates and I bought for ‘special occasions’ was always the cheapest imaginable since my dad wouldn’t let me take any from the hotel bar. And, of course, there were the times, mercifully few, we tried to make our own.”

“Wine making is a noble art not lightly undertaken, Gregory.”

“Especially when you buy old fruit from the grocer and try to remember from the few times you were awake in science class what was all the bother with fermentation and the like. When you’re fifteen and convinced you’ve stumbled on some great thing nobody has ever much thought about before, things like quality, flavor or toxicity don’t matter a great deal.”

Mycroft’s full-body shudder was very reminiscent of what Greg had done when first tasted their homemade concoction. At least Mycroft didn’t look like he wanted to cry or was poised to vomit up his stomach contents in an hour or so when the flavor coming back out was going to be a lot better than the flavor that originally went in.

“Yeah, we weren’t what one would call connoisseurs.”

“If it is any consolation, Sherlock perpetrated a similar experiment with much the same results. We feared greatly for the neighbor’s dog who was caught lapping up a bit of spillage on the lawn after Mummy disposed of the remnants she found very poorly hidden in her gardening shed.”

“Amateur’s mistake. Never hide anything in a place that your mum might set foot. They have unbeatable senses for sons causing mischief in any form whatsoever.”

Mycroft took another long sip of his drink and savored both its taste and the feeling of camaraderie. He had been honest with Alicia – he _did_ value Gregory for more than his body. That was, perhaps, what had him so profoundly perplexed. It was a staggeringly unusual occurrence. He had taken lovers, veritable legions of them, yet he never felt particularly engaged on a personal level. Which was a far different thing than a _sexual_ level.

In truth, he connected to a paltry few on a personal level at all. People… what a bother. Interacting with the public was nothing short of agony. If this job did not offer a wealth of additional benefits, he would have parted ways with Uncle long ago. Though what he would do in place of this work, he had no clear idea. His personal talents were unparalleled in both usefulness and diversity which made choosing one of the standard careers virtually impossible. Therefore, he endured the empty-headedness and vulgarity of the populace and reserved his true attention for diversions and individuals worthy of it.

Which, it now was obvious, included Gregory.

“With age does come wisdom. I fear, however, Sherlock will be an octogenarian and still believe wisdom is the capital of the nation of Wis. His knowledge of geography is positively deplorable.”

Greg laughed and kept grinning as he finished with the few remaining tasks for ending his night.

“Let’s hope it’s good enough for him to follow a map to his new flat.”

“I suspect he will leave the navigation to a cabbie. He may be here tomorrow, however, so gird well your loins. The club is hosting a reception for a visiting dignitary, with various members of the scientific community in attendance. That generally brings Sherlock out of his shell, if only to sink his tortoise-like jaws into their flesh with his opinions of their theories, research, methodology and so forth. I believe, however, he might find several with whom he can converse in a marginally collegial fashion while the others receive medical treatment for their wounds.”

“Scientists… that’ll have his blood flowing. Probably have mine, too. Science was never my best area in school, but I liked learning about it. It was always interesting, even if the fiddly bits flew over my head like a startled bird.”

Gregory appreciated science. That… might that offer a candidate for another recreational activity? Mummy had rather a large influence on several institutions that promoted science which guaranteed any form of access he might desire.

“Have you, by chance, visited the London’s Natural Science or Science Museum?”

“Not yet, but I’d like to at some point. It’s been hard to find time to see things like that since… well, I usually work multiple jobs to make ends meet and that doesn’t leave a lot of time for much besides popping into a club or something for an hour or so of something besides earning a wage.”

Yes… this could be leveraged.

“Then I propose we remedy that terrible situation.”

Greg smirked at the statement because he had naught for doubt as to what Mycroft was thinking.

“Oh? How?”

The ghost of Alicia’s moral compass floated in Mycroft’s vision and counseled caution. He had already thought the term ‘leveraged’ for pity’s sake and that was not how one proceeded with a romantic proposition!

“We might pay one a visit, or both given their proximity, when we have coordinating time free. My family has some connections to various of London’s institutions, which ensures petty things such as admission fees are waived, as are areas marked ‘Staff Only.’ If…. if you are interested in doing such a thing, of course.”

From your expression, I honestly cannot predict… anything. Damnation!

“R… really?”

That did not help!

“I… yes?”

“You really want to go with me somewhere like that?”

The naught of doubt was crashing and burning in a somewhat spectacular fashion and Greg couldn’t say he’d be mourning its loss.

“I would not have made the offer otherwise.”

Your face, Gregory… I have not seen this particular smile before. It is positively luminous…

“I’m… I’m surprised, actually, but I’d love to!”

Surprised… hmmmm… yes, he must do more to demonstrate his admiration for other elements of Gregory’s being. This was a critical point. And he had missed it! It should not require a neutral party to make plain key points where his strategy was failing. Bah! His mind was utterly useless on the subject of Gregory Lestrade. He might as well be Sherlock.

“I am delighted to hear it. Perhaps our next shared free day after our picnic.”

“Our what?”

Ah yes… you are not privy to that plan.

“I… given we will soon enjoy a ride together on your motorcycle, I thought we might extend the experience with an al fresco meal when we happen upon a scenic spot.”

“Really?”

This again…

“Yes, really.”

Greg’s face froze for a moment as his brain tried to process what Mycroft was saying and appending it to what Mycroft previously said. And appending _that_ folder to the overflowing valise of things Mycroft said… and did… before _that_. The processing was not going swiftly.

“Wuh…”

“Pardon?”

Sputtering and spitting, Greg’s brain shimmied shakily in his skull, thin wisps of smoke spiraling out various cracks and fissures, but the few lingering semi-functional cells were waving their hands frantically at him not to do whatever it was the randomly-blinking and fizzing parts were telling him to do. Don’t ask what’s going on, don’t poke at his motives, don’t be a suspicious berk… you _know_ he wants to get you in bed, he’s made that clear as glass. This just could be a fairly clumsy manipulation to move that cause along.

It was hard to imagine, though, that Mycroft would be _so_ sadly clumsy with manipulation. He was clumsy with cool and suave, he was horridly clumsy with flirtation, but from what he’d observed while working here, Mycroft seemed scarily skilled at manipulation. Of course, this actually could _be_ scarily skilled manipulation made to appear sincere through apparent failure.

If he’d just met Mycroft, that’s the way he’d lean but… even in the short time he’d known the bastard, he’d noticed that Rudy’s assessment about Mycroft’s people-reading ability was spot on. Mycroft would know _he’d_ know two things at this stage. First, that Mycroft _was_ good at manipulation and, second, that he’d be furious if Mycroft turned that on him. Insulted, angry and absolutely certain never to let one of those long fingers come within touching distance of this body until the end of time. Greg Lestrade doesn’t have any trouble finding company for the night… or the hour… so shutting the iron gate on a certain manipulative prick getting him between the sheets wouldn’t require any thought whatsoever.

The last-standing brain cells started tossing out reminders of the times Mycroft showed more of himself than single-minded sex mania. They were few in number, but… meaningful. Could it be, with this whole business tonight, the dolt actually was trying to… date? That was novel. And, frankly, flattering. Mycroft was a shit, but he was an attractive, smart, funny shit who didn’t need to change patterns if all he wanted was a steady supply of sexy fun. This scruffy bartender wasn’t a fool, though. He’d keep his eyes open for being very, very wrong about this but… he couldn’t deny the part of him that hoped he wasn’t.

“Wuh… when are you hoping to do this? It sounds brilliant, actually.”

“Our very first opportunity. I shall consult the work schedule and determine precisely when that shall be and, if you are amenable, take charge of creating the menu for our repast.”

Your face, Mycroft… I haven’t seen this particular smile before. It is positively radiant…

“I’m very amenable! I wager you’d fashion something a gourmet would appreciate.”

“No doubt. Then it is settled.”

“Good! Now, tell me about your evening before you suffered subpar wine. You went to some exhibition, didn’t you?”

Mycroft took another sip of his drink and let himself savor the taste of victory. NO! Do not think in terms of victory, as if this was some war he was waging against Gregory. Or contest for which the man was the prize. Take joy from the fact Gregory accepted the proposals. And not grudgingly! He seemed genuinely happy for the chance to share time together. Without this rather handsome and sexually-gifted rogue using any of his repertoire of seduction techniques to clench the certainly-not-a-victory victory. They could exchange sexual gifts another time. And would! Of that, he was certain. Other gifts were on offer now and those were sufficiently sweet on their own. 

And how fortunate that he had a decided taste for all things sweet…


	9. Chapter 9

Rudy was used to his nephews being insane. It was really as normal a thing as breathing to find one or both of them engaged in something well-described as nonsensical. Or loony. Idiotic. Description defying. Oh, any number of terrible, terrible things.

This was near the top of that list.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Unless Mycroft was opening a leather bar, which was not beyond the realm of possibility, having a flat covered in all manner of leather goods was somewhat unfathomable.

“Uncle! Why are _you_ here?”

“Because you haven’t answered your phone or my yelling for the past hour.”

“That still does not explain why you are _here_.”

“Because you actually have work to do and other people can’t do theirs if you’re not getting your bit in order. And because it’s difficult to kick your lazy arse down the stairs to get at it if I’m anywhere _but_ here.”

“Balderdash.”

“Ok, that was partly a lie, but only partly. I could, I suppose, lasso you like a steer while standing in the corridor, but I’m not sure we have any rope, so this seems easier. In any case, you’re supposed to be approving the preparations for tonight’s reception but since they’re fairly minimal and the staff know their jobs, there’s not much in the way of possible disapprovals. Must satisfy protocol, however.”

“Protocol? Pardon me a moment.”

Mycroft laughed a long, mocking laugh while Rudy rummaged a bit more through the nearest leather pile and, finally, tossed a pair of shorts at Mycroft’s face, which morphed the laugh into an affronted squawk.

“Do not besmirch the clothing! What I do not purchase must be returned.”

“Oh, so you’re not going into business for yourself? How disappointing. I could set you up with just the right clientele to make the venture a highly profitable one.”

“Amusing.”

“That’s what I’m told and I gladly choose to believe it. Because it’s true. In any case, why do you _have_ any of this given you have absolutely zero reason to be within a nautical mile of it.”

“Au contraire.”

“Do tell.”

“I have reason for both proximity and ownership of an appropriate selection since… I will soon be astride a motorcycle.”

Now it was Rudy’s turn to erupt in laughter and Mycroft pouted because his Uncle had truly perfected the implied mockery of the disbelieving guffaw.

“You? Mycroft Holmes… that is the most ridiculous lie you’ve told since you claimed a pigeon stole your biscuit so you could gain another.”

“I was five years old!”

“And it’s worn the Crown of Deceit until this very moment in time.”

“You are a pompous buffoon.”

“Something else I’ve been told, though I pay it little heed. Maybe if they said _handsome_ buffoon…”

Waving a dismissive hand, Mycroft ran his eye across his various piles and smiled at the thought of what they meant, in terms of his upcoming outing with a certain stunning bartender. Last night had been a glorious thing. Gregory’s smile still lingered in his memory as clear and sweet as the moment he first laid eyes on its beauty. Fortunately, when one is of a certain social status, having a shop… shops… deliver a wealth of any manner of goods for perusal was a simple thing. All must be perfect for their… date. Nothing less was acceptable.

“Gregory is taking me riding. I must be appropriately attired.”

“Ah… Greg is involved. Well, that’s a different matter altogether.”

“And why is that?”

“All you have to do is hold on and not become a splat on the M25. I thought you were going to actually pilot the bloody thing.”

“Why is that so unbelievable?”

“Let us return to the land of your youth again, shall we, and discuss… Pegasus.”

Mycroft’s flinch was something to warm Rudy’s heart.

“No.”

“This can of worms was opened by you, dear nephew, so reap the… well, I can’t say whirlwind as it’s mixing metaphors and that’s for the dimwitted and politicians, which are often one and the same. Reap, then the wormwind. And it was a very wormy thing, indeed. At least that’s what the extremely short trajectories of your attempted rides resembled. Worm trails. Drunk worm trails.”

“That is completely incorrect and grossly insulting.”

“To worms, true, however it’s wholly accurate for your ability to ride your bicycle. The headmaster of your school placed a highly delicate phone call to your parents as he was concerned about the panoply of bruises and scrapes you were suddenly sporting.”

“Have you finished with your delusional fantasy?”

“About as finished as you were with your bicycle when you steered it into the duck pond.”

“That was not my fault!”

“Your blaming of pigeons was no more believable then than it was when they supposedly formed a brace of bandits and stole your biscuit.”

“They suddenly flushed from behind a hedge! I was startled.”

“You were desperate to concoct a cover story and that was the first thing your wet, childlike brain could muster. Now, returning to the matter at hand, why have you ordered in an entire shop’s worth of leather?”

“Because I must select the correct set of garments for my ride.”

“One pair of sturdy jeans, one pair of boots, one t-shirt and one heavy jacket. That, I do admit, is acceptable in leather since it weathers any manner of minor spills and protects your dainty, pale skin. I fail to see, however, any helmets for inspection. You are _not_ riding without one.”

“Nor do I plan to, however, this shall come in due course. First…”

“First you want to make certain you look sexy and wild for Greg. Take my advice and choose comfort and safety first. There’s little less sexy than an overheated, chafed splat.”

Mycroft glowered but felt a creeping sensation that there was a modicum of merit to his accursed uncle’s remarks. He certainly didn’t want his outing to be compromised by the need for immediate intravenous hydration or skin too raw to engage in any post-ride sexual gymnastics. And, in truth, some of this appeared most uncomfortable and chafe-prompting. However…

“Given you are a tedious person at the best of times, how do you feel confident offering any advice whatsoever on this situation?”

“Because I ride.”

“You do not.”

“And have a motorcycle.”

“Poppycock.”

“ _And_ have had one since I was twenty. Not the same one, mind you, but I do enjoy going out for a ride when the weather permits. And time permits. The latter usually being the deciding factor, which says a lot given how shite our weather is for any outdoor activity.”

The mental image of his uncle on a motorcycle was doing its level best to reduce Mycroft’s brain to its most primitive neurons and he genuinely didn’t know if he’d exit this conversation with any greater cognitive ability than that of a garden slug.

“You… _you_ have a motorcycle.”

“And… hold onto your knickers… your mum has ridden on it countless times.”

“NO!”

The look of horror on Mycroft’s face was splendidly reminiscent of his father’s when he learned that the more handsome and witty Holmes brother had absconded with his girlfriend and was squiring her about the countryside on the metallic beast he had, in true James fashion, termed a lethal contraption.

“Frankly, I credit my roguishness with her eventual agreement to enter into our exceedingly absurd family. In any case, I’ve also chatted with Greg about things motorcycle in nature, so he can verify I’m not overstating my expertise. You’re actually late to the game, my boy. No… I take that back. Your mother was pregnant with you on at least one of our rides, so you do have experience, albeit in assisted form.”

Mycroft almost slumped onto his sofa in disgust, then remembered the mountain of leather he was hoping to leave pristine and took a few steps so he could slump against the wall instead.

“My life is utterly despoiled by this knowledge.”

“Your life has been despoiled by you more times than I, or likely you, can count, so moving on. Show me the jacket selection and we’ll find one that’s suitable. Are there boots anywhere?”

“I… no.”

“Well, provided you’re not doing this today we have time to sort that out, too. I’ll take you to a shop I know who’ll fit you perfectly. Do you own any jeans?”

Mycroft pursed his lips because, yes, he did, but they were designed more for showcasing his luscious arse than anything else and he did not need his uncle’s exceptional eye for tailoring noticing… and commenting… on that fact.

“None I would be willing to potentially destroy.”

“I doubt you’ll be destroying anything since Greg’s an experienced rider, but accidents do happen. Alright, we’ll add some sturdy trousers to the list, the right socks for your new boots and a helmet.”

“Gregory likely has…”

“I’m sure he has a helmet for passengers, but I cannot imagine you wanting to stick something on your head that other people have worn, maybe with hair product, sweated in…”

“Oh dear lord…”

“Exactly. Besides, you’ll be more comfortable with one that properly fits and I’d be happier making certain it earns top marks for protecting that skull of yours. Seems we’re going shopping! One of my very favorite pastimes.”

Feeling extremely uncertain how matters had come to this point, Mycroft found he couldn’t generate any real upset over it since his foolish uncle actually seemed to have first-hand experience, which might be useful, and could likely be persuaded to pay for the upcoming purchases, which _absolutely_ was useful.

“Oh very well… if we must. I have yet to set a date for Gregory and my jaunt, so there is sufficient time to lay in a proper wardrobe. And prepare the hamper.”

“Hamper?”

“I thought it considerate to offer Gregory a meal to enjoy if we stumble across a scenic vista.”

“That’s… that’s a surprisingly good idea. Who gave it to you?”

“You insult me, sir!”

“That was precisely the level of snooty to indicate I was correct. Well, you keep your little secrets if it makes you happy. I’m simply delighted someone gave you good advice and you actually took it. I’d say that earns you some gloves, too, for your riding costume.”

Uncle was definitely paying. Yes!

“And my eyes? Are sunglasses not de rigeur?”

“Not necessarily, but we can add that if we can find a pair that fits comfortably with your helmet.”

“And are fashionable.”

“But of course! It would be a terrible shame for your mother to see photographs of you in your biker gear with a pair of pink, plastic sunglasses to complete the ensemble.”

“Mummy is seeing _nothing_.”

Sorry, old sport, but you’re planning on me paying for all of this so I have to get something for myself out of the deal.”

“And, in an instant, your shockingly-rare act of altruism falls to ruins.”

“You know, if you enjoy this little adventure, you might want to buy a motorcycle of your own and you know who you will have to convince before you’ll be able to do it.”

“Mummy does not control me!”

“Close enough. And, if she approves of your presentation as a serious-minded rider, she’ll be far more likely to give her further approval of any large, loud and petrol-quaffing purchases towards pursuing this newfound interest. With Gregory.”

“I… I suppose one or two photographs would not be amiss, if only to satisfy her inevitable concern for my health and safety during our excursion.”

“And she might toss you a few quid to make future excursions all the more delightful.”

“The thought had not crossed my mind once.”

“Twice?”

“Closer to five times, but who’s counting…”


	10. Chapter 10

“You are hideous.”

Greg stopped scratching his balls for a moment, then recognized the voice, and kept scratching.

“Fuck you, Sherlock.”

“He’s got a point, Greg. Sorry to say.”

A second voice. Also recognizable.

“Fuck you, John.”

“You know, with all this fucking, I’m worried you won’t find time to actually do your job. Rudy will be crushed if he has to sack his new bartender because he’s turned gigolo.”

Greg paused his ball-scratching just long enough to use the scratching hand for a rude gesture in John’s general direction. Then returned to scratching because he had no doubt it was making Sherlock seethe.

“That is disgusting!”

Seething like he’d won a medal in it.

“Like you don’t have a scratch in the morning, Sherlock.”

“It is afternoon.”

“ _My_ morning, then. Hard to be up with the birds when you work my hours.”

Then had a cocktail or two with Mycroft, who was continuing with his very strange… normalness. No, that wasn’t the right word. Normal was boring and Mycroft was anything but boring. Calm, maybe? Better, but still not right. Real? That was close. Very close. Mycroft was behaving like the person he was when focused on work and not being a cartoon character. Still unique, still… scintillating, but not wholly ludicrous and sex-crazed. A few slips, here and there, like that thing he did with his tongue and the olive, but… that was actually fucking amazing and completely sexy. And that was alright. There was nothing wrong with a lusty streak. Nothing at all. It was when that’s _all_ you showed that things started to go awry…

“You reek of sloth. It is of little surprise, however, I am still appalled. I am also appalled at your lack of tea.”

“I have tea.”

“Incorrect.”

“You drank all of my tea, didn’t you?”

“That does not change the fact that you do not have any.”

“Wonderful. Well, enjoy drinking coffee, since that’s what we’ll enjoy until I can lay in groceries. Unless, of course, Sherlock, dearest houseguest, you want to…”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. John, you want to be helpful, since you seem to be enjoying a sandwich made with my fucking food?”

“Early lunch. And, no, I won’t do your shopping. You can have a free daisy or something when I make my next delivery to the bar. Which will be in about… oh shit, I actually have to go since I’m on for the afternoon at the florist and I can’t be late for that. Lots of lovelies coming your way, though, for the sciencey thing Rudy’s got on at the club tonight, so maybe I’ll be generous and give you _two_ free daisies for being such a generous friend and sharing your cheap and tasteless food with me.”

When a person had one flatmate, they had many flatmates. All temporary, all hungry, all thirsty and all complain that your food, drinks, sofa and telly are crap.

“You’re a prince, John. A genuine prince.”

Greg shambled to his small kitchen nook and set a pot of coffee going, feeling alternatively happy and peeved that he’d worn pyjama bottoms to bed last night. Would serve those two bastards right to have to stare at his bare arse while he set breakfast in motion.

“A prince with a job to do. See you tonight, Sherlock.”

“I still claim you are a blackguard.”

“Ok. Greg, make your hair pretty for the daisies you’ll be sporting.”

“Fuck you and your daisies, too.”

“Mother Nature thanks you for your kindness.”

After sharing a round of gestures that confused Sherlock terribly, John grabbed his jacket and bolted out of the small flat while Greg returned to rummaging for something that hadn’t already been eaten by his squatters.

“Hrmph.”

That was a frustrated hrmph. And that it was enunciated very clearly signaled that the hrmpher hoped that it would spark a question _about_ said hrmphing.

“Feeling out of sorts with John today?”

“His laziness is repellent.”

“Looked fairly industriousness eating my bread, meat and cheese.”

“Your proletarian food choices are not my concern. My new residence is, however, of _prime_ concern to me.”

“He still not agreeing to be your loving wife?”

“Preposterous. I have no need nor desire for a wife. I do, however, have need for someone to help transport my belongings to my new residence.”

“Oh… you wanted him to help you move and he said to get stuffed.”

“Hence he is a blackguard.”

“Did you offer beer? That usually makes a difference, in my experience.”

“I… no. Such a ridiculous idea would never occur to me. He should simply wish to assist based on…”

“Yes?”

“Reasons of camaraderie.”

“Sad. You, that is. If you wanted help today and he has to work, that’s not his fault, camaraderie or not.”

“His penury is most certainly his fault.”

“He’s a student! They’re all skint, at least the ones I know.”

“Their personal shortcomings are beside the point. In any case, given you are now awake, you can assist me.”

“Uh… no.”

“Incorrect.”

“First, I’m going to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, then do a bit of tidying, meet a few mates for a bit of football and an afternoon pint or two… busy day, all told.”

The silence that met that statement had Greg’s hair beginning to prepare for a standing-on-end.

“You have friends.”

Uh oh.

“The fact you feel the need to say that out loud is worrying.”

“Excellent. That is more available hands to accomplish my task.”

“I’m not volunteering my mates to be your slaves.”

“Slavery is revolting. The focused toil of the lower-classes is another thing altogether.”

“If you mean elitist as fuck, you’re right. Besides, you’re flush. Hire some beefy lads to do the job for you.”

“There is no reason to spend money when it is unnecessary. Further, I do not trust the average man with a van to correctly handle my delicate scientific equipment.”

“But you’ll trust my raggedy lot?”

“That… yes, you have a point. Hmmmmm….”

Greg poured his first cup of coffee and took a long sip before popping the last bit bread into the toaster. Shifting your life from one place to another was shite, no question about that. Especially if you were a pain in the arse who probably had no friends of his own, besides John, to help with the job. And any actual movers would probably have Sherlock’s head torn off and fed to a cat after half an hour of being in his employ…

“How much stuff do you have?”

“Why?”

“Curious. I don’t have a lot, as you well know, so I’m curious what Mr. Science has in his evil lab.”

“A laboratory cannot be evil, only the scientist and even that is a matter of philosophical debate.”

“None of which answers my question.”

“An abundance of boxes of varying sizes.”

“Furniture?”

“Some. The new flat has pieces available for my use, but I have a few to add, such as my bed and several chairs.”

Standard stuff…

“I’m not saying I can promise it, but I can ask my friends if they’ll lend a hand for a couple of hours to get you sorted. I thought you couldn’t get a key until Monday, though.”

“I cannot. However, the landlady agreed that my possessions can be placed there in the interim since… if I do not have them fully removed from my former flat today, they will be tossed into a skip.”

Of course.

“And you didn’t think to mention that last bit until now?”

“I did not anticipate being scurrilously abandoned by everyone in existence.”

Meaning, John. And the likelihood was nil that Sherlock had actually told anyone of his deadline because if they mucked in to help, he wouldn’t actually _need_ John Watson. Good plan unless it failed. Which it had…

“Piece of advice… don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

“I am not a chicken!”

“Other things lay eggs, too. I thought you were smart.”

Sherlock made a rude noise, but the expression his face made a speech about how irate he was that Greg had deciphered his extremely brilliant, albeit unsuccessful, strategy.

“I’ll make a few calls. You _will_ be an upstanding fellow, though, and open that wallet of yours for beers and takeaway to reward people for giving you some help. Should I even ask if you have something to put all your tat in?”

“Like a horse and cart?”

“Like a van or lorry or the like?”

“No.”

“Of course not. I know a couple of people I can call for that, too. Provided they’re not making deliveries or working today, that is.”

“It is the bane of my life that wage-earning dictates the time of those who should properly be using that time to suit my needs.”

“I’d say fuck you, but I hate to overuse a sentiment. Just remember that anybody that I can scavenge to help you today is doing it out of the goodness of their hearts, so keep your bastardy comments to yourself and say nothing if you’ve got nothing nice, or at least neutral, to offer.”

“Then I will stand mute for the entire time.”

“It’s funny you think that’s actually a problem.”

The scent of just-ready toast was the perfect accompaniment to Sherlock’s fiery glare. Well, his day had gone down an entirely different path than predicted, but it was still coffee, tidying and some physical activity to keep a bit of muscle on the bones. Bartending wasn’t easy work, but this job didn’t offer the fitness potential his others had in the past. No fights to bust up, no fights to participate in, no throwing large, rowdy pricks out on their arses… couldn’t let his fine physique suffer, now could he? People would notice. Some people. One person in particular. Not that it mattered, of course, but… pride in one’s appearance was good citizenship. They’d said something like that in school, he was sure of it…

__________

“And he’s still alive? Really?”

Greg laughed at Rudy’s incredulous tone, but he had to admit he shared it to some degree. There had been a few tense moments when Sherlock’s standing mute philosophy had failed and almost earned him a broken nose, but that was early on and it didn’t take too long for his mates to get Sherlock’s measure and act accordingly. Which was to ignore it all and, on occasion, do something like ruffle Sherlock’s hair to wind the young man up tighter than a watch spring.

“He wasn’t too much of a problem, overall. Honestly, I think he was more surprised that I could get people to step in, _relieved_ that I’d gotten people to step in and nervous because a bunch of rough-looking toughs were milling about and he was very much the odd duck in the pond. Which isn’t strange in and of itself, but the other ducks weren’t giving him shit over it and it had him a bit on edge.”

“That sounds about right. Thank you, though, Greg for helping with that. If he’d said anything I would have made arrangements but I suspect you’re right about him hoping John would take the tasty bait and not leave it dangling limply on the hook.”

“But John opted for limpness, which I’m certain is proof of something or another I’ll not mention in polite company. I have to say, though, Sherlock held up his end of things and paid for a hearty lunch and probably doesn’t think I saw him give my friend Pete some cash for petrol since we used his dad’s lorry to haul his stuff. He’s a decent person, at heart, just doesn’t seem to want anyone to know it.”

“Nail hit squarely on the head. In any case, thank you, again. How’s the flat? Lacking in all things ratty and bedbug-promoting?”

“It’s nice! Bigger than I would have expected and in good condition. Safe neighborhood, I suspect. Looked respectable, at least. I don’t know that part of London well.”

“I did make a few inquiries about that part and, yes, it’s safe and respectable, the latter of which makes it unsuitable for a berk like Sherlock, but he does tend to keep his mayhem close to home. Sometimes. Now, a question for you… actually, more a request. Sherlock’s sorted with the safe and sound business, so try not to kill Mycroft on your grand tour of the countryside? He’s completely clueless about motorcycles, let alone how to ride on one, and I’d rather not lose a nephew on a publicly-funded road.”

“He told you he strong-armed me into taking him riding. Interesting.”

“I can guarantee he’ll be properly attired, but he refused to let me take him for a few rides to get used to the whole thing, so…”

“Please don’t say be gentle with him.”

“Well… now, I don’t have anything to say, do I?”

“Funny. And, yeah, I realized he was stepping into something new so when and if we go, I’ll take him on an easy ride where he can feel very biker-ish, get some wind in his hair and feel the conquering hero about the whole business when we’re done.”

“Oh, you _will_ be going. The gargantuan amount of money I paid getting him kitted up for the ordeal ensures you will be going. And I want at least a few snaps of wind-blown Mycroft to show his mum. She’ll be so proud.”

Greg’s mind toyed with the idea of wind-blown Mycroft and found it exceedingly to its liking. And worth a photo or two for his own collection, as well.

“I will. And I’m glad to hear he’ll have proper clothes. I was a bit worried that he’d do something daft like wear head-to-toe leather that I’d have to sort out before we even got on my bike.”

Rudy’s eyes twinkled, but his lips stayed tightly shut on that particular topic.

“He’ll be fine, but I’m happy to hear you’re thinking ahead. Alright, then, I’ll be off to have a nap or something while you get ready for the madding crowds.”

Greg smirked as Rudy sauntered off since the man was an absolute master of seemingly doing little while being one of the most efficient and effective owner/managers he’d met. And, also, because the madding crowd awaiting him could never be as madding and ridiculous as either Sherlock or Mycroft, both of whom would be a part of that crowd this evening…

__________

Busy nights meant profitable nights and it was just busy enough to keep him hustling but not run entirely off his feet or yelling for help to cover the bar. This new guest seemed an easy one, though. Already had his book, so he’d likely be one to sit and linger over a drink while the bustling bartender kept his attention on other people.

“Good evening, sir. What might I get for you?”

“Oh, the usual.”

Since I’ve never laid eyes on you that would be difficult. Maybe this person wouldn’t be quite the easy guest he’d imagined.

“Of course, sir. If you tell me what that might be, I’ll have it to you quickly.”

A pair of strikingly blue, but owlish eyes turned their gaze from the book on the bar top to Greg, then narrowed in a slightly-puzzled fashion.

“You are not Andrew.”

“No, sir, I can’t claim that honor, I’m afraid, for I hear he was fine person. I’m Greg and I’ll be working here in his place.”

“Oh. Interesting.”

Is it? Why?

“I’m glad to hear that. In any case, what might I get for you tonight?”

“My usual.”

“Which is?”

“Hmmmm…”

“Having a bit of trouble deciding?”

“No, I am simply wondering if I should order it since Andrew made it precisely to my taste and I would hate to be disappointed. It is not a commonly-known drink.”

“Fair enough. I’ll tell you what, let me make it for you and if it’s not to your liking, it’s on the house and I’ll try again or you can order something different. How does that sound?”

“Very acceptable. I shall have a Cameron’s Kick.”

Greg’s eyebrows shot up because that wasn’t one he’d served before. But he _did_ know how to make it, courtesy of his dad deciding a good way to help his son learn to read was handing him cocktail recipe books and quizzing him on the day’s lesson.

“Absolutely, sir. One moment.”

Ok… scotch and Irish whisky… keep them on the lighter side and… now. Should be about ¾ oz of lemon juice, but… that bloke doesn’t have the look of someone who wants things on the tarter end of the scale, so a bit shy of that and hope for the best. ½ ounce of orgeat and shake with ice… where’s my strainer… ok, one chilled coupe and into it goes something hopefully pleasing to the tongue.

“Here you are, sir. I hope it’s to your liking.”

But, first, please scrutinize it like it’s a bug under a microscope as if you can tell how it tastes by how it looks. Ok, sometimes you can, but this isn’t one of those times to take a fucking sip, please. Please?

“I hope so, as well. It truly is my favorite.”

THEN TAKE A BLOODY SIP!

“Hmmmmm….”

“Sir?”

“I am pleased.”

FUCKING HALLELUJAH!

“Happy to hear that, sir. Always hoping to give good service.”

“May I have a cherry?”

Cherry? Come on memory, did I miss something? No… but a person’s ‘favorite’ can be self-tailored…

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that was the standard presentation.”

“It isn’t. I… just like them.”

Well thank you for destroying your image as a slightly irritating customer. And you’ve got a shy grin, too, which isn’t sporting in the least.

“Of course, sir. I may even be persuaded to part with two.”

Ok, that light in your eyes is the sort that I know well. The sort that says you’re made honestly happy with all sorts of small things in life and that’s just adorable, especially for a middle-aged man.

“That would be delightful!”

“What would be delightful and can I share in the fun?”

Greg looked over to the voice, which belonged to a slim woman with laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and a loving smile adorning her lips as she gazed at the man at the bar smiling back at her.

“Cherries!”

“Your favorite.”

“They are!”

Greg put four cherries into a glass and set it down, feeling no surprise that his guest quickly snatched one to pop into his mouth and snatched a second to present to the woman who had to be his wife.

“May I serve you a drink to go with your cherry, ma’am?”

“You must be Greg.”

“That I am and very happy to serve you tonight.”

“Rudy was right, you’re a gem. And I’ll have a glass of the Pinot Grigio he keeps for the women who say they want a glass of white wine but get upset when they find they’re served a Chardonnay and actually really want a Sauvignon Blanc but they’ve already sent _back_ the Sauvignon Blanc once just to make a show of being ‘discerning,’ and he or the bartender has already had enough of their nonsense for one night.“

It was a mark of the clientele that Greg already knew exactly the wine in question.

“Right away, ma’am.”

While he poured the wine, Greg grinned at the couple who were merrily chewing their cherries as the husband showed his wife something in his book. Only when she bent over slightly and her hair moved out of the way did Greg notice the wife was wearing one of the surprisingly stylish name badges they’d given to the visiting scientists and other attendees of tonight’s gathering at the club.

“For you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Greg. Put it on Rudy’s tab. He still owes me for lunch last week.”

“And the hat.”

“True! Thank you, my dear. Forgot about that. Put _his_ drink on the tab, too. And the next round. That was a dashed expensive hat. Ooh, there’s someone I want to talk to. Enjoy yourself, dear.”

The man smiled and proudly held up his book, earning himself a peck on the cheek before he was abandoned for a stout gentleman in a well-cut tweed suit.

“He’s a geologist, if I remember. Can’t keep them straight. Not really my area. Can’t keep _him_ straight, either, but that’s just a personal failing.”

Greg’s puzzled look vanished as Sherlock stormed towards the bar, himself sporting a name badge that was, unhelpfully, jammed into his shirt pocket so only a corner protruded visibly, proclaiming him ‘ok mes.’

“I demand something to complete the rotting of my brain from the utter nonsense I have endured.”

“How much rotting can occur in five minutes? We’ve only just arrived.”

“ _You_ have only just arrived, Father. I have been here for an hour and forced into manual labor before even the deplorable state of science in this country painfully was made manifest.”

Father? Oh… that explained a lot.

“Your mother seems happy.”

“Mummy is happy because she is a show off.”

“And a genius.”

“Immaterial.”

“Are you upset that she is simply better at showing off than you?”

“Absurd.”

Greg served several other customers while keeping an ear on the conversation. That was Sherlock’s father. Which meant he was Mycroft’s father. The eyes certainly fit. Being a big squirrely didn’t but his mum was a different thing altogether. There was definitely elements of Mycroft’s personality there, especially in the way she played with her cherry before actually eating it. Women her age shouldn’t be doing things with her tongue like that, even if they made her husband giggle. No… strike that. Women her age should _absolutely_ do things like that because why the fuck not? His mum was exactly the type to do that which, truthfully, is probably why it seemed so not right. Mums and sexy tongues was not a thing anyone should have to contemplate if they wanted to remain sane.

“Here you go, Sherlock. That whisky you said didn’t strip the lining from your throat the last time you had it. Sir, may I get you another?”

“Oh. I have finished this one. That was fast. Hmmm…”

He’s checking his watch. Of course. Nothing else was possible.

“Yes, I do believe I will have another.”

“On your brother’s tab.”

“Ah, yes. Most certainly. Which reminds me to schedule our monthly meeting. Which Rudolph will attempt to avoid, as always. If ledgers were cake, the man would lose three stone in a year.”

Rudy did love his cake, that was true, which made the bakery that delivered to the club very content.

“That’s not good. Having a skeleton run a bar is novel, even by London’s standards, so I suspect a downturn in profits.”

“True. However, he would probably confound my prediction by making up the losses with fish and chips.”

Rudy also loved his fish and chips. And just chips. The man liked food.

“Maybe if you do your meeting over lunch with fish and chips, and cake for afters, he’s sure to attend.”

“That… I am making note of that.”

He’s taking a pen and pad from his pocket. Perfect.

“And on _that_ note, here’s your drink. And John.”

Who was giving a small wave as he approached the group which turned to a rude gesture when Sherlock glared daggers at him.

“Hell's bells, Sherlock. That’ll sour your whisky. What can I get for you, John?”

“Pint of lager, barkeep. Something hearty.”

“Oh, my food didn’t keep you fat and filled?”

“Not when we had to take on extra deliveries since, apparently, there’s a rash of birthdays today that everyone forgot until this morning. I’m famished.”

“Sherlock, visit the kitchen and bring your friend something to eat.”

John smiled happily at the pronouncement, but Sherlock had a different reaction to his Father’s words.

“No.”

“That is rude and not Holmesian in the slightest.”

“Father… pause a moment and reflect on your statement.”

“I… yes, I see your point. Our family does harbor a rather uncharitable streak when it either prompts revenge or amusement. For which purpose are you starving John?”

“Both.”

“That’s rather a lot of peevishness.”

“All duly earned.”

“Ah.”

John grinned at Greg who was learning quickly the diverse nature of the Holmes clan. Mr. Holmes was a decent fellow, but had his own streak of uniqueness that made him as unpredictable as the rest of them.

“Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Holmes. I’ll pop into the kitchen when I’ve gotten this delicious pint down my neck and see what’s on offer. I’m not proud, I’ll take what they’re setting aside for the cat because it’ll still be better than what I ate at Greg’s today.”

John’s smarmy little grin was wholly intentional since he knew well Greg couldn’t give his head a knock while on the clock. He _could_ put pepper sauce in his beer or something, though, so a fine line had to be walked.

John’s grin, Greg’s ‘you’ll get yours’ grin, Sherlock… behaving… none of it was lost on the man carefully keeping his place in his book while the antics continued. It was good to see his son with friends, one of whom seemed to be this new bartender. Sherlock was singular, to say the least. But, to be fair, so was Mycroft. In an entirely different, of course, but singular, nonetheless. The question, now, was how Greg interacted with that singular, elder child…

“Father, why are you at the bar? I’ve told you to enjoy your book and cocktail in a chair, in the club, and leave bar seating open for paying clientele.”

A question whose answer would now begin to form…

“I like the bar. It has a friendly feel.”

“You converse with absolutely no one and keep your nose in your book. Friendly is not a point of consideration.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Father, we have…”

The slight throat clearing had both Mycroft and his father looking at Greg, one more anticipatory than the other.

“Your dad’s on his 2nd drink, Mycroft, which is one more than a goodly number of the other patrons sitting here, so I’d say he’s earned his seat.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and pursed them harder when his father pointed a finger in Greg’s direction, nodding while returning his eyes to his book.

“Gregory… do not humor him. And keep him away from… Father! You have already perpetrated a raid on the cherries.”

“I like them.”

“Gregory, see his thieving fingers remain far away from the cherry supply. And when he completely forgets that he is here, have someone bodily lift him from his seat and place him in the club where he is free to forget everything and everyone while costing us naught but the air he breathes.”

Huffing loudly, Mycroft strode back towards the club and Greg waited until he turned the corner before dropping another two cherries into the glass to join the stems of the previous four. The soft snigger he heard was ample reward for a shared bit of defiance.

“As is typical, Mycroft has polluted the atmosphere with his toxic effluvia. Come, John. I have further dunderheads to shame.”

“You do that and I’ll check the cat bowl in the kitchen for scraps.”

“Your appetite is decidedly anti-science.”

“And that bothers me why?”

“I… I will think of something.”

“I’m sure you will.”

__________

Very little could rattle particle physicists, but Mycroft bearing down on them as if was preparing to rain hellfire down on anyone in his path was enough to make them scatter like mice. Leaving the mathematician they were consulting both exasperated and amused in equal portions.

“There you are, Mycroft. Looking decidedly murderous, which I confess is a look you do wear terribly well.”

“Mummy… Father is at the bar in clear violation of our accord.”

“Leave him to it, he’s having a nice time.”

“He can have a nice time, in a soft chair, here in the club.”

“Your father prefers enjoying his drink at the bar.”

“Where an actual paying customer could sit.”

“Very well, I will leave your uncle a few extra quid for the inconvenience. Is that acceptable?”

“He also does not prompt conversation which might have _other_ patrons linger and put further monies in our coffers.”

“Given the profit Rudy sees from this enterprise, which is obscene, I suspect you’re simply worried your father will tease information from Greg that isn’t to your liking.”

Calynda Holmes never before had reason to imagine her eldest son having a heart attack but knew now exactly how it would it appear should it ever occur in her presence.

“Wh… what?”

“Rudy tells me you may have made a friend and that is certainly something you would not want your Father to have access to without your vigilant eye keeping watch.”

It was dastardly of Uncle to mention Gregory at all, however, this was minimally damaging, so he would mete out vengeance with a moderate hand.

“Gregory is… I will not lie and say he and I are not becoming friendly, however, I certainly care not if Father and he converse.”

“James has little need to converse when he can simply observe.”

Drat. That was true. And he had already interacted with Gregory, which Father surely would have been keenly noting, in his deceptively oblivious manner.

“Again, I care not, for all he will observe is a talented bartender and honorable man.”

“Who is lickably gorgeous.”

“MUMMY! How dare you lust after my Gregory!”

Oh dear.

“Really, Mycroft, you must learn not to be so easily baited. And, now that I have confirmation that you view him as more than a friend, the fun can truly begin.”

“That was positively dastardly!”

“Much to my delight. Now, when will you invite him to meet us formally?”

“Never.”

“Then I shall do it myself.”

“No.”

“You cannot veto an invitation issued by someone other than yourself.”

“I most certainly can and am. Gregory is newly employed and we are gradually coming to know one another. I shall not have you and Father completely upending our progress to satisfy your prurience.”

“Mycroft, dear, we have worried terribly about you, especially since Sherlock, who is seven years your junior found a boyfriend and…”

“John is not his boyfriend.”

“Their pitiable refusal to admit the obvious is not my concern. My _concern_ is my eldest and his lack of a genuine relationship to his credit. You’re a wonderful boy, Mycroft. Brilliant, handsome, clever and, when you allow it to show, funny, caring and warm. Warm-ish. You have so much to offer, so very much to offer, yet I seem to wait in vain for you to actually offer it _to_ anyone. I have little doubt your father will form his own opinions of Greg and I’ll form mine. If those have to be formed in full here, then so be it. But form they will and… oh, he’s already such a doll, I have no doubt he’d be a marvelous match for you.”

“You will not engage in matching!”

“Me? Only if necessary. That role, properly, falls first to you. If you muck it up, then more experienced hands must step in to repair the damage.”

“You… you do not even know Gregory and you have us at the altar!”

“Good heavens, no. What church would allow both you and Sherlock under its eaves? That would surely prompt the arrival of the Antichrist, if only to consult with you both on how best to bedevil humanity. I’m thinking a garden event…”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, drew in a deep breath as if to explode, then spun on his heels, storming away from his mother, whose smile was growing wider by the second. He was SO easy to discombobulate. And so obviously interested in this Greg behind the bar. Who must know his job or Rudy wouldn’t have kept him on and James wouldn’t have made short work of his favorite drink… he was _so_ horribly fussy about his drink… but now the question was what it was beyond job proficiency that had captured her Mycroft’s attention. Besides the blindingly obvious, of course. Greg _was_ a lickably gorgeous young man and Mycroft was utterly addicted to the lickably gorgeous. Not that he wanted anyone to know that. But a mother knows. Mothers always know. Which makes the needling and subsequent unraveling of her offspring all the more enjoyable to behold…


	11. Chapter 11

“Another one, sir?”

Greg actually appreciated customers who thought before making a decision. In James Holmes’s case the thinking took a bit longer than most.

“I…”

“I can come back, sir. Not a problem at all.”

“No, that is unnecessary. I am merely contemplating changing my order.”

“Oh, alright then. What do you fancy?”

“That is my conundrum.”

“Need time to think or see a drinks menu for ideas?”

“No, that, also, is unnecessary. I am factoring in the length of time my wife shall likely remain with her colleagues and the odds she will wish to have a final drink here with me before we start for home.”

“How are the odds looking?”

“Good, actually. I shall order, then… a vodka and Tizer.”

Which explained the lone bottle of Tizer kept at the back of the various non-alcoholic drinks and mixers that had puzzled him since he began working.

“Very good, sir. Any preference for the vodka?”

“The blue one.”

“Blue bottle or blue label or…”

“Ah. I did not realize the pervasiveness of blue for that spirit. The bottle has blue letters. Prominent ones. I really should pay more attention to such details, however, they would quickly fill my mind and leave scant room for other things.”

“Of course, sir. And a very nice choice, nonetheless. One moment, then.”

Quickly pulling together the order, Greg ran his eye along the bar so it could be caught by other patrons and to scan for who might be ready for more, their bill or any other little thing that was making them fidget a bit in their seat. It was always better to anticipate than make a guest wait, even if they weren’t actually aware at the moment they were waiting. They’d come to it soon enough and generally wouldn’t blame themselves for it.

“For you, Mr. Holmes. Anything else?”

“Such as?”

“Ummm… glass of water, a nibble from the kitchen…”

“Neither of those, I feel, however, I _would_ like to know when you and my son first had sex.”

Greg had lived his entire life thinking those scenes in films where the protagonist suddenly found themselves in an alternate reality were fictional. They weren’t. Nor were they nearly as exciting as they appeared on the screen. They had a much colder, clammier feel…

“P… p… pardon?”

“It is recent, that much I am certain, but was it before or after you began working here? Not that it matters, I suppose. Merely my curiosity causing my brain an itch.”

His alternate reality was now embarrassing, terrifying, confusing and sweaty all in equal measure. The sweaty part being especially problematic since nobody wants to be served by someone dripping perspiration into their wine.

“I…”

“I am somewhat unknowing why Mycroft also seems to view you in a terribly friendly fashion, given he shows little desire to befriend anyone beyond the time required to secure their agreement for sex. That is, in all likelihood, the most meager of things I fail to understand about him, though.”

Alternate realities were crap! What to do? Where was the exit? Where was the book to pull from the bookcase or sconce to turn to open the secret door to let him escape? Nowhere? Fine, fuck it, go with honesty. All it could do was bring about his sticky, embarrassing death. Which would be leagues better than this.

“I met him just before I started. It was a bit of a shock to us both when I applied for this job and found him working here, too.”

“Ah.”

And?

“Is… is that it?”

“Should there be more?”

“No… or yes? I don’t know.”

“Then how am I to respond?”

“That’s a very good question. I suppose I expected you to have some form of comment about it.”

Given the words ‘sex’ and ‘my son’ said by a father generally led to things a bit more shouty. At least, in his experience. A time or six.

“No, I was simply curious about the timeline.”

“Alright. Ummm… ok. Well, enjoy your drink and… yeah.”

No, he wasn’t sliding away from the man at the bar, who had scarcely stopped reading his book throughout their entire exchange. He wasn’t. He was… gliding. Much more manly.

“Gregory!”

Shit. Manliness was now equally a burden since Captain Sultry was racing to board the ship.

“Dear god, why were you talking to Father?”

This was not setting sail for seduction but opening the harbor for something much, much… much… worse. Try lying this time, maybe?

“Because I work here and he’s a guest.”

Maybe not actually lying, but… concealing. Better term. Far more flattering.

“Balderdash. You were conversing. You should not converse with him. Ever. Make note of it in a manner you will be unable to forget. He is staggeringly nosy, in his own deceptive way, and might glean things best left private.”

It’s too late for that. Far too late. I already slid, for pity’s sake, even though I’ve tried desperately to pretend otherwise. Is it time to reveal the conceal? It was probably better to confront all of this headlong than stick a scruffy, but handsome, head in the sand. Sand was murder to get out of the ears and the guests already had to worry about a sweat-laced cocktail, without adding a bit of grit to truly ruin their experience.

“Mycroft, I… I think you might need a drink.”

That Mycroft steadied himself against the bar showed, to Greg’s mind, proper appreciation for the direness of the situation.

“Oh no. No. What did he say? What did _you_ say? Tell me there was no saying, Gregory. You simply must.”

“Saying occurred.”

“Atlas’s back brace! How revealing was it? How completely are we exposed?”

“Ummm… hard to know since… he already knew, as in knew the exposed part, and just wanted to know when the exposing happened.”

Mycroft was one second away from needing a fainting couch and Greg wasn’t certain there was one available so prepared to vault over the bar to catch him before he smacked his head on the floor. The cleaners would never forgive him if they had to clean Mycroft’s brainy mess in addition to everything else they had to do for the job.

“This is a disaster! A Valley of Death level of disaster. Already Mummy has us wed and…”

“WHAT!”

Both Greg and Mycroft looked about after the outburst as if they worried enemy spies now might be apprised of their location.

“Mummy has fully lost her senses. It was inevitable, to be fair, but I did not predict it would happen today. And in such a terrifying fashion.”

Greg hesitated a moment, then poured a large whiskey for Mycroft, taking a long sniff of it himself before he handed it over. He may not be able to enjoy one while on duty to steady his nerves, but he certainly could leave it to his imagination.

“Ok… what do we do? This is serious! I know what happened to those Valley of Death chaps. Nothing good!”

“I agree. We are being cornered like rats. Stunningly attractive rats, but the point remains.”

“They’re… oh god. The Death is even worse because… your parents are only one step removed from Sherlock!”

“Gadzooks! Arrrrgggghhhhh! This is intolerable!”

“Ahem.”

Greg and Mycroft froze then turned their heads towards the sound, an act that forcefully reminded them that Greg’s slide only took him a step from the person at the bar who was figuring rather prominently in their current conversation.

“Father… do you require a lozenge?”

Hope springs eternal.

“If you are concerned your mother and I will inform your brother you are sexually entangled, you can set aside that concern.”

The spring of hope brings cool, refreshing relief!

“Oh. Oh. Well, thank you, Father.”

“For what?”

Mycroft watched his Father’s arm rise to end in an extended finger pointing in a direction that…

“Oh dear.”

… ended in Sherlock’s triumphantly-smirking face.

“The liars are fully revealed. My suspicions are now verified. I demand fifty… no… one hundred pounds as penalty for being so sorely ill-used.”

“Not a farthing shall you have, you… eavesdropper!”

“It is, apparently, the only way I can be assured of accurate information given both you and your sex pet are liars.”

“Gregory is not my sex pet! Or any form of pet! How dare you!”

Despite that endorsement, Greg decided skulking away like a puppy who’d been caught chewing a shoe was a smart idea. Mycroft could handle this. Arguing was a specialty of his. In any case, this stunningly attractive, shoe chewing puppy had guests to serve. Those at the far end of the bar looked particularly needy at the moment.

“I am making note of your cowardice, Gregory Lestrade!”

“Put it with your one about not letting your parents know we shagged.”

Mycroft waved his fist at Greg, who continued his previously-interrupted slide away from Ground Zero, then turned the fist to shake at his Father, then at Sherlock. THEN at his mother who had joined them and spoiled his gesture by giving his knuckles a cheery mum-kiss directly on his whitened knuckles.

“Was it you or Sherlock put him in this adorable rage, James?”

“Hmmm? Oh, I have no idea, but blaming Sherlock is generally a safe wager.”

“Father! That is dastardly slander!”

“What was that, Sherlock? Did you say something?”

The problem with his father, one of many, in truth, was that Sherlock wasn’t actually sure if that was said in jest. The man was so unfairly skilled at eliminating, when he chose, everything from his perception except that which he purposefully wished to notice…

“I did and I place it at 65% that you are fully aware of that fact.”

“Ah.”

“Mummy, Father is not acknowledging my computation.”

“Something I placed at nearly 100% would occur. Now, why is Mycroft threatening fisticuffs? It is yonks until Christmas.”

“His debauchery has been revealed.”

“His debauchery is both well-known and long past commenting upon, so I doubt that is the reason. Or, at least, not all of it.”

“He owes me £100.”

“That would have _you_ threatening fisticuffs, since the probability stands at naught your brother would give you a shiny shilling. Ooh, did a little secret scuttle out into the sunlight?”

“Your trite overuse of consonance, Mummy, is immature. And, no, nothing came scuttling, into the sunlight or otherwise.”

“James?”

“He and Greg had sex.”

“We already knew that. How disappointing. I was hoping for something fresh.”

Mycroft downed his whisky in one gulp, turned his empty glass over on the bar top and stalked away, back straight and shoulders back, making mental note to ask Alicia the proper legal procedure for divorcing one’s self from one’s family and what settlement package he might gain from a highly-verifiable claim of mental torture.

“I still want my £100.”

“Oh, Sherlock dear… no.”

“Please?”

“And you smiled when you said it. Such a delightful attempt at manipulation. James, give our youngest a little money as reward for being so cute.”

“He likely has already picked my pocket, so he can have what’s in there before returning it.”

“How much is it, Sherlock?”

“A paltry £50.”

“That’s more than enough for whatever bug burrowed up your bum. Now, give your father his wallet and go corner one of the botanists for a chat. Their lot is being particularly dreary tonight, some business about funding or whatnot, and that should liven up their night immensely.”

“I prefer to talk to the chemists, instead.”

“They’re already half-drunk, so need no further enlivening. Be a good son and talk to the plant people. I know for a fact that at least one of them is rather a specialist in plant-based poisons.”

“Poisons?”

“And may have consulted a time or two on criminal investigations.”

Sherlock’s vapor trails as he left the bar would have made fighter jet proud.

“He still has my wallet.”

“No, dear. Sherlock is easily distracted when one knows the proper levers to pull.”

Handing her husband his now-unpickpocketed wallet, a happy sigh was released by the family queen bee who then began humming happily about the night’s turn of events. How delectable was it, too, that Greg was pretending to ignore the entire bother as, truly, was the smartest strategy, all things considered. It took focus and talent to properly serve a busy bar and keep an eye and ear wholly trained on the small typhoon that always battered the shore when Mycroft and Sherlock occupied the same parcel of real estate.

It would be a joy if he saw the nonsense and, despite it all, continued to remain in whatever capacity he had developed with her son. She would keep to herself that she had harbored a worry, continually growing, about her Mycroft. He was such a conflicted boy. No, perhaps conflicted was not the correct word for he saw no conflict between his desires and his duties. Which, of course, was reasonable since neither necessarily impinged on the other, however… however, his desires, she had begun to despair, might never flower into more than the physical. The poor boy honestly believed they had no idea how freely he indulged his lusts, but they did and, though there was nothing wrong, per se, with a strong… and liberated libido, a mother could hope that her son would find someone with whom he could be more than fleeting encounter. Someone who could touch her son on a deeper level, be his friend as well as anything else they might want. She only wished for her sons to find someone who would be to them as her dear James was to her. Greg might not be that person, of course, but he certainly was a step in the right direction. Whether he liked it or not, though he absolutely would, Rudy was getting dragged to lunch or for a bit of cake tomorrow to compare notes on this new hire and her little Mycroft. James’s observational eye was frighteningly keen, but he could miss certain things that his brother saw clear as crystal. And those, often, were the truly scandalous things that made lunch or a bite of cake a terribly rewarding experience with a certain Rudy Holmes…

__________

“Are they gone?”

“You are a cowardly son and that’s just a terrible thing.”

Greg grinned at Mycroft who was peering around the doorway connecting the club to the bar and scanning about as if worried hungry tigers were lying in wait to have a nibble of his tasty flesh.

“You saw the evidence, Gregory. They are dreadful. Positively, unequivocally dreadful and that I still survive is a testament both to my willpower and my unmatched skill at being where they are not.”

“Coward. In any case, come out of hiding, Mr. Shaky Knees while I close out here.”

Laughing at Mycroft’s very hesitant step into the bar, Greg made certain the clock showed the bar was fully closed before pouring himself a measure of brandy and another for Mycroft. Not the highest price point, since he was going to pay for this one, but surprisingly good quality for the cost.

“Here. Have a seat, a drink, and a quiet moment without any parents here to remind you that no matter what you do, you’ll always be a tiny, toddling baby in their eyes.”

Mycroft gladly accepted both the seat and the brandy, feeling the relief flow through him that the tumult of his evening blessedly had been laid to rest.

“They are the epitome of pestilent and should have their attention focused fully on my brother, for he is far more in need of a watchful eye than me.”

“I won’t disagree with that because Sherlock is clinically loony but parents don’t really seem to care who you are as a person. You’re still their precious, fragile kitten who will get eaten by nasty wolves if they don’t keep watch over you.”

“It is stultifying.”

“It’s normal. And it could be worse. I mean, what’s the real harm?”

“You saw it. You saw it in pure, unvarnished Technicolor.”

“Well, besides them having a bit of fun teasing you. Your mum spent most of her time with her sciencey chums and your dad just read his book. And drank. Four actually.”

“Four! Ye gads… the man is becoming a drunkard.”

“He was having fun. I kept dropping a cherry or two in front of him, so he had a bit of food to offset the alcohol.”

“Cherries absorb nothing but my contempt.”

Greg fished out a cherry and held it aloft, waggling it slightly until Mycroft smirked and opened his mouth to snatch it from Greg’s fingers.

“In that, at least, you’re your dad’s son, aren’t you?”

“Oh very well. They are utterly ridiculous but vexingly succulent. I never want to know how they are produced for I am certain there is some degree of sorcery involved. Or, more likely, some degree of chemical chicanery that would distress me to no end.”

“Some things are better left a happy mystery.”

“True, unlike our dalliance.”

The elephant in the room had arrived, trumpeting its presence in Mycroft’s dulcet tones. Honestly, though, Greg found he didn’t care in the slightest.

“HA! Yeah, but it was sure to come out at some point. Strangely, I don’t think anyone was particularly surprised. Or, actually, upset by it.”

“Also true. Though I am unsure if that is a good or bad thing because approval merits their continued nosiness and meddling. For that, Gregory, I am profoundly sorry. I am very used to my family’s mayhem, but it is not something to inflict upon an innocent bystander.”

“I wager I can weather the storm. Besides, your dad said he’d like to stop in more often, so that’ll build my tolerance for the more energetic mayhem. His version is a bit quieter, even if it’s equally effective.”

“What! Why on Earth would he… oh, it is a waste of time trying to know his mind. For the most banal, plodding man in the Universe, he is devilishly difficult to predict, at times.”

“Honestly, I think he just likes being in the bar. I don’t think he really talked to anyone all night but me and members of your family… oh! and John… but you can tell when someone is having a nice time and he certainly seemed to be. Maybe he likes being around people now and again even if the ‘being around’ is the only thing he does.”

“Deciphering Father’s motives is rarely a productive use of energy. However, if he continues to actually place orders and you restrict his consumption of cherries below the cost of his drinks, then I suppose I can turn a blind eye to his presence.”

Sipping his brandy, Mycroft slowly realized that Greg hadn’t responded in the slightest and cast an eye in Greg’s direction to see something unexpected. A soft, fond smile.

“Gregory?”

“Sorry. It’s just… this is nice. Really nice.”

“What? What is nice?”

“You. And me. Just relaxing and talking. Has a… it’s odd to say it has a natural feel, but it does and it’s a good one. At least to me.”

Greg’s smile widened because he saw an answering smile starting to bloom on Mycroft’s lips.

“I agree. And I am gladdened that you… I appreciate that you are willing to spend this time with me, Gregory. I know it often has not appeared that I would welcome such a thing and that is to my detriment, but I find myself cherishing these small interludes and anticipating the next when one has ended.”

That was somewhat more honesty than Mycroft intended to reveal, but his brain seemed to view this as an opportunity to be seized, whether the rest of him was quite prepared for it or not. Perhaps it was tired. An evening with Mummy, Father _and_ Sherlock was trying even for his incomparable mind. However, he would not disparage the outcome because… Gregory looked so fantastically pleased.

“Me too, actually. And… I know I haven’t been particularly clear about what I wanted. Between us, I mean. Not given you any indication one way or another what I might want to happen or feel I’m not up for in terms of this or that. I haven’t known myself, to be truthful. I still don’t know exactly, but time like this is absolutely something I’d like more of.”

There was always something feral shining in Mycroft’s eyes so Greg’s surprise was enormous when it shapeshifted into an almost childlike glee that Mycroft wore as gorgeously as his sex panther look. Better, really, since this person seemed far more real and relatable, which is what you want in a…friend, lover, partner in daily crime… than a cat-like god of carnality. Though the latter was free to climb through the window now and again for a little visit.

“We are in agreement, then.”

“To actually leaving so I can lock the doors or something far more fun?”

Cat-like gods of carnality can hiss like the most ferocious kittens known to humanity and that, too, was a real and relatable thing to make Greg’s heart warm contentedly.

“Uncle! You… the evening is well and truly besmirched by each and every member of my accursed family.”

“Oh no, is Mother here? She hates London and hates me more because, somehow, her reasons for hating London are all my fault despite her hating the city began about ninety decades before I was born.”

“Mercifully, no. Gradmama has not slithered in to sow the seeds of her foul distemper. Though… blast! Father, you complete villain!”

“What’s he done now? James’s capacity for villainy is extreme but so unnoticeable that it remains wholly camouflaged within his carefully crafted cocoon of tedium.”

“Gregory says Father intends to visit the bar more frequently. Just tonight, Mummy mentioned that Grandmama intends better to take advantage of this year’s opera productions since, in Grandmama’s words, ‘they are not entirely the pustulant productions of previous seasons.’ Normally, she has her throne installed at her favorite hotel for the day or two she is in the city, however, if Father is fleeing the scene…”

“The utter bastard! She’s planning something more prolonged and he’s going into hiding because she’ll surely take a room with them for them duration. That wretched coward. And Mother will permit it because her dear, sweet baby Jamie works so hard and needs all the rest and relaxation he can gain poor, overworked, delicate, perfect, sweet little lamb. Perfect little shit is more like it! Oooohhh… I’m telling Lyn to put him in chains if she has to so his evil little arse can’t run off and hide from his responsibilities. I’ll pay her if I have to! Mycroft! What does your mother need that I can buy to bribe her into doing the right thing by her oldest and dearest friend who is in perilous danger because of her shit of a husband? A new calculator? Trip to Monte Carlo? Maybe Las Vegas. We can both go. That’s a good idea. I’ll need a disguise, though, because I don’t put it past my wretched brother not to have the surveillance network breached so he can use the casino cameras to find me. Miserable sod.”

Greg passed over the large brandy he’d just poured and Rudy grabbed it seemingly without even looking to see where the glass was actually being held.

“Is it alright if I quit now, sir. I mean the job, not the shift.”

“No. If we have to suffer, Greg, old cock, so do you. And it’ll be suffery suffering, too, because Mother will appear for an inspection of my… ahem… tawdry financial pursuit, and nobody is going AWOL before they can participate in the team-building exercise of being beheaded by her scorn. Except Martha. Mother adores Martha because she’s second only to Mother in scornful comments about me, my business, my fashion sense, choice of toothpaste and way I say the letter ‘q.’ Mycroft, nail his feet to the floor and brace for collision. We’ll have time to get good and drunk before that battleship sails into port and I plan to make proper use of it. Starting now. Nice choice of brandy, Greg. Stock about sixteen hundred more bottles back there because we’re going to need them.”

Rudy stormed off, muttering to himself, leaving Greg to stand silently confused and Mycroft to sit silently scheming since his grandmother’s visits offered a great deal of potential for wreaking mischief against family members. And if she was intending one or more _extended_ stays… this was delightful! His mental files of the various slights committed against him by his family were about to be put to extremely productive use.

“Mycroft… why do I feel as if I just witnessed the start of the Apocalypse?”

“Because you did. And you shall have a seat in the front pew for the chaos and terror that shall accompany it. Given, however, she shall likely set foot in here but once, you shall be spared a great deal of the cataclysm that others shall endure.”

“Look at you smile. What are you planning?”

“Me? Oh, nothing about which you should worry.”

“Ok, how horrible is it and how likely will your plan will find one or more of your family members breaking into my flat because they’re fairly certain the Angel of Darkness doesn’t know my address?”

“As to the first point – the horror is beyond the comprehension of the human mind. As to the second… it is irrelevant because Father will hand over your address if Grandmama demands it and she is not above hunting down her prey if they have the temerity to attempt to evade her clutches.”

“Ok. Can I have a loan against next week’s wages?”

“Why?”

“Because I think it’s time to move to the more expensive booze and my current bank balance won’t allow it.”

“A superb suggestion. I shall mark the cost in the ledgers as a business expense. Uncle won’t mind, especially if I bring a glass or two to his office so he can drown his sorrows with a quality spirit.”

“If a body has to drown, might as well be in the good stuff. Though, we do have healthy supply of cherries for flotation devices if necessary.”

“Break out the container. If I am to perish to avoid an even worse fate, stratospherically-priced cocktails and mysteriously-produced cherries seems somewhat fitting.”

“I can think of worse ways to go.”

“And none, let me be clear, will be as punishing as a visit by Grandmama.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Do not lay another finger upon my person.”

“Fine! If you want to look a berk, go ahead.”

“I do not…”

Mycroft turned away from Rudy’s apathetic expression and towards the mirror wondering what part of his riding costume was not measuring up to standard.

“… look a berk.”

“As you say.”

“Not a whit is anything other than proper and correct.”

‘Yes, yes…”

“DAMNATION! WHAT IS WRONG?”

Rudy cleared his throat and made a small flick of his index finger at Mycroft’s shirt, which now, as if placed there by some gremlin’s nefarious hand, was a long red thread that clashed rather dreadfully with the faded purple material chosen specifically to highlight Mycroft’s eyes.

“Egads!”

“Stop looking at your face and look at _all_ of you when you’re evaluating your presentation.”

“I did! Though… I will concede I focused more upon the jacket than the shirt beneath it.”

For it was a tremendously sexy thing. Not the over-styled, cartoonish specimen you sometimes saw, but a model designed for those who would put it to use and not flounce about the pavement hoping to attract the eye of those who found cartoonish characters erotically appealing. Which, unfortunately, was a frightening percentage of the citizenry. This jacket, however, exuded the perfect black-leather sensuality of the ‘bad boy’ in a way that was real. Something to adorn a real person and not a buffoonish flight of fancy. Yes, perhaps, someone most only saw in a film, but still someone who could be very, very real. A bad boy who could step off of the big screen and into your bed where countless delightful things lay in wait…

“Then take the bloody string off and stop looking a berk wearing a scandalously perfect jacket. David is never wrong with his choices. One of the best people I know for gear.”

Something Mycroft had to admit, though not, of course, aloud. Being called ‘Rudy’s little nephew’ by the man had been quite enough to put him off his lunch. Though, since Uncle paid, he ate every free and scrumptious bite, nonetheless.

“It is adequate, I suppose.”

“You’re standing there, looking in the mirror, wanting to have sex with yourself and all you can say is it’s adequate. I thought I’d taught you how to lie better than that.”

“Another area where you met with failure, it appears. Now, is there anything else for which I must suffer your meddling?”

Do not hesitate to say yes, because today has to be perfect.

“Hmmmmm… your hair doesn’t matter because it’ll be whatever it will be after you’ve had your helmet on but your first impression coif looks fine. You remember everything I told you, correct?”

“You mouth issues a continuous stream of nonsensical blather, most of which I ignore for the sake of my sanity, so the probability is low.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“I have no idea which fish in your blather stream are the targets of this current hook and worm.”

“Don’t distract Greg, yes you can have motion sickness on a bike so ask to stop if you need to, don’t insult other bikers you run across like you did while we were shopping…”

“I only did that once!”

“While in earshot of the insult-ee, don’t forget. Fortunately, your ‘unwashed barbarian’ jab was laughed off owing to my skilled diplomacy and you kept your skull getting cracked like an egg.”

“You told him I was clinically insane and simply awaiting a free bed at the local asylum where I would be forever locked up much to our family’s glee.”

“Made him laugh, didn’t it? Your brain tissue is still inside your skull and not being worn atop it like a hat. I won’t be there next time, so be decent. Besides, you’d embarrass Greg with that behavior and I suspect, more than anything else, that might be the most important reason to you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

Touché.

“Oh, very well. I would hate for Gregory to suffer for any statements I might make, though they are accurate and wholly deserved by the recipient.”

“You’re the most considerate person in the world. I’m not sure which world, but the universe has a lot of them so it stands to reason.”

“Pffft.”

“And the most articulate. Now, is your contribution to this little jaunt ready? And by ‘your contribution’ I mean Mrs. Hudson and Chef’s contribution, since they did all the work for it.”

“Our outdoor feast is prepared, yes.”

Though several of his personal suggestions had been binned because as Mrs. Hudson rudely put it ‘Ooh, this sends a snooty message, now doesn’t it?’ There was nothing snooty about caviar and champagne. Nothing particularly snooty. He had included the cheese! And bread. Which weren’t binned as choices, so there. Not that he had to win an argument with himself over the matter, but any victory was one to savor.

“Good. Something hearty and satisfying is always welcome when you’re on the road. Not that you’ll ever be far from civilization, but it’s nice to know that you can toss a bite or two down the throat when you’ve a mind for it. If you’ve got wine, though…”

“We are not to indulge freely or at all until we are returned.”

“Good. I have painful knowledge of what can happen if you forget that piece of advice. On you go, then! Greg should be here soon and I have a strange notion that you’d rather you both be out and gone before James arrives to make everyone’s life boring.”

“Father? Ah, your monthly meeting.”

“I was going to put it off until next week, or next year, but he’s treating me to lunch and, in a completely un-James action, we’re going to the chippy I like he normally wouldn’t be caught dead in.”

“He is plotting something.”

“That’s my thought, but for free fish and chips he can plot away! I plan to interrogate him, anyway, about Mummy’s visit, so it’ll be a double-plotting lunch. With chips.”

Which, Mycroft had to concede, was rather a step up of from double-plotting without chips.

“I leave you to it then.”

Mycroft made the time-honored ‘and now leave’ gesture, feeling most put out when Rudy ignored it completely.

“One last thing, Mycroft. Greg… I think he is truly hopeful this is a good day. A normal, fun, good day. So… no silly buggers, alright? You’ve been doing amazing well, for what reason I’m not entirely certain, but this is precisely the sort of situation where things can… take a turn… and if they do, don’t muck it up.”

Uncle was spouting unintelligible nonsense. Unsurprising, but it did waste time that could be used for much better things.

“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, so if you will excuse me...”

“This is prime daytime drama territory, Mycroft. A fun and exciting… for you… ride, a romantic picnic by the wayside… you know how this could play out. Someone coming home without underpants and I honestly don’t think it’s the right move or the right time.”

Why did everyone in his family, besides him, walk the knife’s edge between genius and lunacy? With their foot slipping a goodly 80% of the time onto the insanity side of the blade…

“Why would someone forget their underpants? Especially when riding a motorcycle?”

“You know very well, motorcycle or not. Given your history with him, you absolutely _do_ know and… just keep in mind what it is you and he seem to want to change. Or grow. That’s a better word. Have a fun time, enjoy being with a person who finds you interesting and don’t spend every moment with your own plotting, specifically about how to get Greg naked and putting stars in your eyes.”

Now see here…

“That is _not_ my intention!”

“I know it’s not. Now. But… just remember that.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his uncle who remained, as ever, inscrutable.

“Why are you so concerned?”

“You’re my nephew.”

“And have been since my birth. While you are eternally meddlesome and infuriating… this is different.”

Rudy took a long, slow breath and, uncharacteristically, opted for candor. Actual candor not half-truths that he expertly delivered in a highly candid manner.

“I’m concerned because I care. The long and the short of it is _I care_. You have a potential that is beyond belief, Mycroft, and it would be easy never to see it manifest because you frittered away your time chasing your indulgences until you realized that indulgence-chasing was the sad _entirety_ of your life. I’ve seen enough wastrels in my day to know that your gut would burn like acid once the reality of your life hit you and… I can’t bear the thought of it. I’m not saying you have to suddenly become as somber and tedious as one of your father’s solicitors, god knows I’m not, but I haven’t seen you lean in any particular direction for your life and it’s started me worrying. Romantically… well, that hasn’t really existed, has it? I cannot call to mind a single individual with whom you have enjoyed more than a sexual or otherwise transactional relationship, save Alicia. Sherlock, as maniacal as he is, shows some degree of direction in that area, but not you. And what might be your life’s work? The achievement you hope to show, the goal or dream you hope to embrace? If you actually want to stay with the bar and take over when I’ve washed my hands of it and started enjoying my dotage, I would be thrilled. I cannot tell you how thrilled that would make me but honestly can’t tell if that’s a path that appeals. Or becoming a government meddler like your father. Perhaps you want to forge your own path and have no doubt I’ll support you fully in whatever you choose, but… I just worry you won’t choose _anything_ and come, horribly, to regret it.”

Mycroft felt his jaw drop slightly in shock but hired a troupe of invisible pixies to haul it back into place since he, himself, seemed incapable of the task. His uncle never spoke like that. And… likely would not if it was not the unvarnished truth.

“And… that is… I see. But what does that have to do with Gregory?”

Because I will not openly acknowledge that your concern and support is… meaningful.

“As I said, you seem to be doing well with things… now… and it’s a grand thing to see but this is going to be the first real test of staying that course and I want you to get top marks. Perhaps something wonderful and lasting comes of it. Perhaps you try for that and decide you’re better as friends, letting matters settle there. Neither is right or wrong, but I want you to have the chance to find out for yourself by giving it your best effot and knowing, when all is said and done, that you _can_ try. And are capable to doing it again, should you need to.”

That was somewhat insulting. As if he would not try… nay, excel… today. Though, to be fair, Uncle had little evidence that matters would go any other way. And he did say he had noticed a shift in behavior. Which was true. He _was_ trying. He was… and finding it not as difficult as he had initially feared.

“Should I have Gregory affix a gold star to my forehead as proof of success?”

“I’ll know. I’ll know the instant you walk back in here. Either of you.”

And he would. Further, he would wait like a viper, lurking in the shadows, to strike the second a foot was placed across the threshold.

“How nice it must be to have such a surplus of leisure time that you can spend it loitering about to mark my proverbial essay.”

Rudy smirked but knew Mycroft had received his message. It didn’t hurt to emphasize one vital element, though.

“I have faith in you, Mycroft. I don’t want you to think I don’t. It’s just…”

More candor? Fuck it. Why not?

“… being the eldest is hard. The youngest is given help, attention, latitude… _you_ get expectations, responsibilities and a lot of forgetting that you might need some help of your own now and again finding your way. _Your_ way, not the way it’s assumed you’ll follow even if it’s recognized that the finding, any sort of finding, isn’t happening. It becomes your failure, _your_ inability to live up to the mark set for you. Like I said, I will support you wholeheartedly in whatever you want to do with your life, whatever path you choose to take, and with whomever you wish to take it, but I _will_ kick you in the arse if you’ve gotten stuck in something that’s going to leave you with a bleak hole inside because I love you and have since I first set eyes on you. And I worry about you. Constantly.”

With that said Rudy made a small bow, spun perfectly on his heel and exited Mycroft’s flat since, first, any further conversation would embarrass his nephew to a lethal point and, second, it would make his nephew seethe that he couldn’t muster an exit with that much panache if he tried. Win-wins were always a delight in one’s day…

Seething at his uncle’s panache-riddled exit, Mycroft did his best not to reflect on Rudy’s words but failed miserably. The blasted man was right. At least about the latter bit. Being the eldest _was_ hard. Sherlock… he gadded about with no care as to the consequences for he rarely experienced them. Others, often himself, had to manage the fallout. For Sherlock, there was always a guiding hand, the ready ear when he wanted to, in his spewing, highly camouflaged manner, express his problems, hurts and worries… for the older brother there was… less.

Uncle did recognize he was making an effort with Gregory, though. That was… good. It meant that if, should some form of brain fever take him and he actually asked Uncle for advice or perspective, the accursed man might offer something helpful. Mummy and Father were utterly useless, so the opinion of one elderly family member could prove useful. Especially since that elderly family member was willing to fund experiments into new experiences, something which was always useful, particularly when partnered with impeccable taste should that funding entail shopping…

__________

No, he wasn’t nervous. Bollocks. He was simply eager to take his bike on the road and let it run to its heart’s content. Hadn’t done it in awhile, so of course he’d be eager. Maybe a bit giddy. That would explain the slightly shaky hand that reached out for _Cynics_ door when he went to enter. The first time. And the second. Third time was the charm, though…

Greg… finally… stepped into the bar and smiled that his whole system equilibrated being in the space he’d quickly grown comfortable inhabiting. Some places you just worked at, spent the hours necessary to earn your wage and that was that. Others were different. Others were more. This was one of those places and he was a lucky, in many ways, for finding it.

Here was one of those many ways now…

“Ah, Gregory. Precisely on time.”

Mycroft was one of those people, those rare people, who could make anything he wore look amazing. Admittedly, that jacket would make most people look amazing but it elevated the faded jeans, black boots and simple t-shirt ensemble to a truly legendary level.

“Absolutely. Don’t want to miss a minute of the day. The weather’s actually nice! We’ve got sun, which I have to wonder if you pulled some strings to have shine since it’s a punishing rarity on days I want to give the bike a long run.”

“Guilty! A minor matter involving a cordial confidential conversation with Mother Nature. I may have even brought chocolates for the occasion to ensure matters went in our favor.”

“Brilliant! And you’re certainly in the right clothes for a long ride. That’s an amazing jacket.”

“Thank you. I saw it at a little shop and thought it flattering. Little did I know it would come to practical use.”

White lies were not shameful, even when one was trying to present as a worthwhile individual suitable for pleasures beyond the sordid, salacious and positively mind-shattering. Though he was also very well suited for those. And eager. Dear heavens, but Gregory looked rugged…

“It does happen. For me, though, it’s usually the other direction. I find something that looks useful and then it happens to look good on me. Either way, victory!”

Everything looks good on you, Gregory. What looks best is nothing at all, I expect, though I will have to collect data, volumes and reams of data to verify my hypothesis. But not today! Nobody shall lose possession of their underpants. That line in the sand has been well and truly drawn.

“Most certainly. And I hope we also find victory with today’s adventures. A bit of scenery, the scent of nature on the wind, a tiny and eldritch shop that peddles magical wares…”

“I am keeping my eyes open for that very thing. Always nice to stumble upon a place to pick up a haunted ring or book of evil spells. Good for gifts.”

How is it you so easily make me laugh, Gregory? Verily, it is your own mystical power and one I unexpectedly have come to cherish.

“Our day’s plan grows by leaps and bounds! An invigorating ride, shopping for cursed objects and a delicious late lunch. We’d best make a start if we hope to have the fullest amount of time to enjoy our embarrassment of riches.”

“Right! This is going to be fun.”

“I agree.”

__________

I retract my agreement!

“Are we… supposed to be going so fast?”

“What?”

“Fast!”

“Sure! Hold on…”

NO! Gregory Lestrade, that is precisely the opposite of my shout! But, in truth, you are demonstrating an admirable level of control for this speed. Which… very well, if I was pressed to concede, is not monstrously faster than many of the cars on this road. It simply… feels faster. Much faster. And more dangerous.

And, to be fair, dangerous is something I generally find rather exhilarating. However, Uncle’s advice not to become a splat seems far more pressing now than it had when the nettlesome man uttered it. If Gregory was less skilled, the splat potential would be terrifying.

And a splat could not enjoy the sunshine, the wind and the sensation, not only of speed, but of wildness. Of doing something daring and bold. Perhaps it was simply the novelty, but that did not diminish the exultation, something that was only heightened by knowing it was an experience shared. And, as long as the splat scenario was avoided, the sharing could last all the day long…

__________

“This is absolutely, fucking amazing, Mycroft. You are the master of packing a lunch.”

“Thank you. And you are the master of choosing the perfect spot at which to enjoy it. This is a terribly tranquil location.”

He had wondered about leaving the motorway and taking the small road, as well as the even smaller one that followed, but had to admit that the tidy and serene park which bordered a swift, clear stream was picture perfect for a quiet nibble and chance to converse without the continuous roar of engine and wind in his ears.

“I stopped in the village a few times for petrol and always thought this was a lovely place. The stream connects with a little river or whatnot further in and there’s a nice pub where you can sit outdoors and watch the ducks paddle by. I think I’d go nutty after awhile with this much peace and quiet, but it’s grand to enjoy on occasion.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. I treasure the diversions and entertainments London offers, but I find myself, at times, seeking quieter options to simply partake in the calm they provide. Those times are few, I admit, but they are enriching, nonetheless.”

“I think that’s the key – mixing things up. Don’t get stuck in one thing so you don’t appreciate what else is on offer. It’s like music, you know? There’s loads out there and if you never bother to even try anything new, you’re going to miss so much. Not that everything is good; a lot of it is shite, but you never know until you make the effort. For example… you and classical music, Mr. Holmes. I believe I heard you have a taste for it?”

Mycroft smiled wryly and credited Greg with having a very good memory.

“I do. And it is very much as you say, a tragic thing to limit one’s opportunities for discovery. Or to limit one’s capacity to take pleasure in diverse experiences. I admire greatly the classical masters. The music is transcendent and… it is a joyful day where I simply lie in bed and listen to something that makes my senses soar. The visceral nature of the moment is vastly different than what I encounter at a club, for example, however, it is wholly as rich and enlivening.”

“I love days like that! Let the music take over and just… bathe in it. That sounds weird. But it’s true! All around me, like I’m floating in the sound… definitely different than when I’m at a club or with my mates who think they can actually play. To be fair, they say the same about me and we’re both right, but it’s that feeling of being part of the music. Great feeling, too.”

“You play?”

“That depends on who you ask. If you ask me, I’d say yes, I don’t embarrass myself too horribly on the guitar. If you ask anyone else, they’ll say embarrassing myself is the _only_ thing I do with my guitar.”

Gregory was musical. That was… unexpected. And decidedly pleasing to know…

“Might I hear you play at some point?”

“I… if you’d like. I can’t guarantee you won’t want to pelt me with rotten vegetables once I start, but I can bring my guitar one night and play for you after we close.”

“I would welcome that. I have come to treasure those quiet interludes after the bar has closed and that would be an exceptional addition to that time.”

“You say that now. You might not say that later. But we’ll see!”

There. I am showing interest and made not a single grab for Gregory’s underpants. This is going well.

“Excellent. I very much look forward to it.”

“And you can play, too.”

The going well has veered decidedly off its trajectory.

“Pardon?”

“Sherlock let slip that you studied piano.”

Sherlock. You bounder!

“Note the past tense used for that description.”

“I’m not saying you might not be a tad rusty if you haven’t practiced, which you _have_ , but I’d still like to hear you play. There’s a piano in the club, right? For those upscale parties where they have live music and definitely not the sort I thrash out on my guitar.”

“There is.”

“I like the way you clenched your teeth there. Made the words look as painful as they sounded. For someone I have no doubt still plays beautifully, I have to assume that you’re just not accustomed to playing with an audience, even of one. Let me guess… you sneak down once everyone’s gone home and play to your heart’s content, but that heart suffers an attack if you realize the cleaners haven’t quite finished and are merrily enjoying the free concert.”

Mycroft scowled darkly. For half a second until Greg’s triumphant grin had him laughing at being very accurately called out.

“Guilty! I prefer to play alone as… it is much as you described previously. To lose myself in the music. It is a difficult thing to achieve when one knows one is being watched.”

“That makes sense, actually. I can’t say if I enjoy more playing by myself or with my mates, but it’s definitely a different… awareness? No, that’s shit. Frame of mind? Maybe. Probably one of those things there’s a word for but I certainly can’t think of it. But, it’s two different things and that’s good, because it circles back to what we were talking about for having different experiences to broaden out your horizons.”

The twinge of shame Mycroft felt from once assuming Greg must be a typically stupid rough boy, albeit a sexually beguiling one, stung surprisingly sharply. Lack of education did not equate with lack of intellect or cleverness. Something he forgot at his own peril.

“I do appreciate a circuitous conversation.”

“And I appreciate this cheese. It’s wonderful.”

“One of my favorites, actually.”

Ask about his favorites. Show interest. Again.

“And what might be _your_ favorite, Gregory?”

“Good question! And one I can’t easily answer because I’ve not tried many and when I do, it’s either at some party and all I know is it’s light yellow and cut into cubes or I have a catch-all name, like Cheddar, but not the actual sort of cheddar or anything about it. I know there are different kinds or brands or whatnot and some I like more than others, but all I know is they’re all Cheddar so…”

Greg’s ‘there you have it’ shrug was, in itself, an inspiration.

“Then that might be another outing for us and chance to expand, as you said, our horizons. It would be entertaining, and educational, to embark upon a course of cheese tasting. I have _some_ knowledge, but it is mostly from what is served at the club or the sorts of parties that serve _precisely_ what we serve at the club. I am not averse to delving deeper into the topic.”

Or to spending more time with you. Please say yes.

“That sounds incredible!”

But is that a yes?

“Does that mean you would enjoy participating in such a thing?”

“Absolutely. The education part is important, too, because… well, you know how we offer cheese on the bar menu? Yes, there’s pairing suggestions listed and I have the kitchen’s cheat card memorized for recommendations, but most of that is for patrons having wine or beer. It would help to make recommendations for people having a cocktail or even a fizzy pop or sparkling water. Know a bit about them and similar types of cheese to not sound so much like I’m guessing when I suggest something.”

“And… oh yes, this is now a stellar idea. Given this would improve your effectiveness, Uncle can pay for our explorations. He can then claim it as a business expense, so any complaints will be few and purely performative.”

“I like how you think, Mycroft.”

“Thank you, it is one of my better qualities. Though my other qualities are exceptional, as well.”

__________

The second half of the ride was, to Mycroft, as energetic as the first, but with less worry about ending his life in a tremendously messy manner. What bliss had been their day… a variety of activities, chances to come to know each other better, shared discoveries… very well. He would admit it, though not to anyone’s knowledge but his own, that a purely sexual relationship, while offering specific tangible, and ecstatic, benefits, might be the wrong path when it was forged with particular individuals. He might long… burn, even… for a deeper, more expansive sexual relationship with Gregory, other facets had their own gemlike gleam. And, now, he wanted not a single diamond, but a chest. A chest positively brimming with gleaming gems…

“Well, Mycroft, we’re here. I have delivered you home safe and sound, so Sherlock owes me five quid.”

“He believed that would not be the case?”

“More… hoped. You’d left in a lay-by or something. Maybe get sold to human traffickers. Who knows with him.”

“Marvelous. Might I offer you a drink?”

“Uhhhh…”

Greg looked down at his riding gear and shook his head.

“Not really dressed for it, but thanks all the same.”

Mycroft pursed his lips but didn’t press the issue. Gregory was stunning, however, if he felt uncomfortable given the typical peacock-like tendencies of their clientele, then he would speak no more of it. However…

“Pshaw. I propose this, then. Let us enjoy a drink in the kitchen…”

Not my suite, though the temptation to make that offer is staggering, for I am committed to today’s no-underpants-removal agenda and that commitment is nothing short of sacred. Not the slightest whiff of possible debauchery shall despoil your nasal membranes…

“… while I unpack our hamper. We had cheese with no wine, Gregory. The tragedy of that is incalculable.”

And I shall present my naughtiest of smiles, which is not sexual!, to further sweeten my suggestion.

“Oh… you convinced me! Actually, I may take the opportunity, too, to use the shower here and change into fresh clothes. I don’t have the motivation to check for Sherlock’s little surprises if I use my own shower tonight and that could lead to an even greater tragedy than unaccompanied cheese.”

“Hmmm… let that be our plan, then. I, also, shall refresh myself and we can meet in the kitchen afterwards for a glass of wine. I know the perfect choice for relaxing after a vigorous day.”

And, take note, I neither offered to shower with you or invited you to share mine. I am excelling at this!

“Good idea! I’ll see you in a bit, then.”

Quickly detaching the hamper from his motorcycle, Greg hoisted it and stepped through the back door Mycroft held open for him, with Mycroft then taking the stairs up to his suite and Greg continuing to the kitchen to drop off the hamper before darting into the staff room for a quick shower and change of clothing, opting for the slightly-shabby set he kept for when he was leaving for the night and the only place he might stop is a club where his slightly-shabby look would still attract lots of notice.

Not that he wanted that, though. Today was beyond belief. He was a little ashamed to admit it, but he’d more than half believed Mycroft would try something shady, despite being genuinely decent recently. But he hadn’t. He’d been… the sort of person this scruff had come to genuinely like as well as lust after. That was a combination with possibilities. Truly wonderful and… happy… possibilities. And he could think about them a bit more as soon as he fathomed out that old dear right there.

“Ummm… hello, ma’am. Can I help you?”

Because you don’t work here and being in the kitchen… which is surprisingly empty… is a bit not good.

“Where is my son?”

Oh no… the old dear is confused.

“I’m not sure, but I’ll be happy to help you find him.”

“Pah! Don’t bother. I’ll find him when I want to and make him regret being so horribly rude!”

“Yyyyyeeeesssssss…. ok. Well then, might I escort you back to the bar or the club? Much more comfortable there than in here.”

“No, you may not. I want tea.”

“Tea? Ummmmm… ok, but we do serve tea in both those locations.”

“I refuse to wait.”

Alright, Greg… make the nice old lady a cup of tea and let her enjoy it while you try and find where everyone has gone so you have some allies in trying to see this sorted.

“Then I can do it, I suppose. Make it like my Mum showed me, not how I make it for myself.”

“How is that different?”

“I like it strong enough to take the paint off a lorry.”

“That’ll do.”

Maybe ‘nice’ old lady is a touch off the mark.

“Yes, ma’am. Not a problem.”

As long as I can find tea, which I now realize could be an issue since I only spend enough time in the kitchen to grab a quick nibble. But, there’s a kettle and you usually keep the tea near at hand, so… not this cupboard… or this one… found you.

“Will this do, ma’am?”

“Is that all there is?”

“Uh… it’s all I can find right now. I don’t work in the kitchen, so I’m not really sure where things are. I can look, though, but you said you didn’t want to wait…”

“Honest. I can’t fault that. And you remembered what I said, as well. You work here, though. Interesting. What do you do?”

“I tend the bar. Today’s my off day so that’s why I’m not in a uniform or dressed… better.”

Because I now realize that you, confused old thing, are maybe starting to wonder if I’m a tramp that snuck in an open door and was hoping to steal a bite to eat.

“You? Tend the bar? How old are you, boy? Twelve?”

“A bit north of that, but I’ve been told I’m young for the job here. I work hard, though, and am good at what I do, so the owner’s never had cause to question hiring me.”

“Interesting. But, also, predictable.”

“Is it?”

Because now I’m worried that _I’m_ the one who’s confused and you really shouldn’t use even an electric kettle if you can’t trust your own mind. She’s glaring, though, so I’d best risk it.

“Very. The younger generation… at least _you’re_ polite. That’s refreshing.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That’s kind of you to say.”

“Truckling, however, is poor form.”

“Is that to do with hygiene?”

“Are you joking?”

“A bit. I actually don’t know what truckling is, though.”

“Again, honest. Makes you look a bit thick, but better an honest imbecile than a deceitful genius.”

“Oh, ha ha, Grandmama.”

Greg whirled to find Mycroft glaring at the elderly woman who was glaring back and with years more experience at proper glaring.

“Ummmm…. yeah… what?”

“Gregory, do not sound like an imbecile. Grandmama will gloat.”

“Ok. I’ll try not to do that. Your tea, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Usually I’d have to prepare it myself since the kitchen staff goes into hiding when I am on premises. And… this is surprisingly to my taste. Rudolph may have made a good decision in hiring you, in full violation of his usual tendencies to bumble and cavort with nonsense.”

“He’ll be sorry he didn’t hear that firsthand. Is he hiding, too, do you think?”

Greg wasn’t sure which of his portfolio of smiles he should take out for the occasion of being scrutinized in a full up-and-down fashion by Mycroft’s actual grandmother who, it was now clear, did not suffer from confusion and would _not_ hesitate to speak her mind about the results of her scrutiny. He went with his ‘being polite to the customer who’s a bit gruff’ smile. It was a safe choice. Now was not the time to throw caution to the wind and try anything bolder.

“Hmmmm… not an imbecile, then. You have potential, Gregory. Mycroft, do take notes.”

While Greg let out a massive inner sigh of relief, Mycroft slowly stalked towards a drawer, removed from it a corkscrew, opened the wine he had in his hand, then took a long swig from the bottle before smiling and offering it to Greg who quickly moved to find glasses since he didn’t want to lose his status as a lad with potential. Mycroft could be cheeky with his gran, but not the working-class punk with faded jeans and badly scuffed shoes. He’d avoided a smile-related disaster but needed to keep his momentum going. Besides, she was a gran! There was a lecture waiting, he was certain, about proper appearance and if she was content to postpone it for another time, like next decade, he supported her decision wholeheartedly.

Besides… him + Mycroft + mutual showers + wine might, to a suspicious grandmotherly mind, equal something… scandalous. It’d be horribly unfair to be suspected of scandal when there wasn’t a bit to be found. At least not today. Another day, though, might be a different story altogether…


	13. Chapter 13

Greg learned long ago the rules of dealing with elderly women. Be polite, compliment whatever accessories they might be sporting, don’t forget that they’re in charge of the conversation (or anything else, really) and be helpful whenever possible. That last bit could be applied to anyone, of course, by old ladies were a lot more scathing than anyone else in existence in chiding you if you didn’t step up to the task. Mycroft, apparently, had never learned any of these rules.

“Kettle. Tea. Water. You made your own tea during the war, did you not, Grandmama?”

“And my prize for not having to make it now is _surviving_ the war, as well as the accursed years of your existence. Go.”

“I think not. My arm is most cruelly pained from… oh, something or another. A kettle is far too heavy for me to lift.”

Perhaps Mycroft might benefit from some second-hand helpfulness.

“I… I’ll be happy to make another cup for you, ma’am.”

“Do not stoop to being his spittle-wiper. It is unbecoming.”

Being helpful and polite didn’t work! Even second-hand! Why was nothing simple and normal with the Holmes family?

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll remember that.”

“See that you do. This single time, however, you may act in his wicked stead and prepare my tea. At least you have the skill for it. That one lacks a single culinary talent beyond slicing a loaf of bread and I would feel no surprise to visit and find him missing thumb and forefinger from a baguette-related incident.”

“My culinary technique is flawless!”

“Flawless technique requires practice. The only skills you practice, that I can perceive, are sexual ones and the only evidence in existence for your trumpeted success is you. Playing your trumpet.”

Hang the tea! Greg began the slow slide down in his chair that would, according to plan, take him out of line of sight of the combatants, then beneath the kitchen staff table, then crawling towards the door of the kitchen where he could escape to freedom. He never had positive control of his conversation, or any control at all, but what little standing in it he may have possessed he was very willing to forfeit to save his skin.

“Utterly slanderous!”

“Slanderous is not synonymous with true.”

“That… why I never.”

“That I _am_ willing to believe.”

Still sliding…

“You desire evidence? There!”

Mycroft pointed at the empty space where Greg’s head would have been had he not accomplished a full third of his escape slide. A quick lowering of said finger acquired the desired target.

“There! There is evidence. Gregory! Regale Grandmama with praise for my sexual prowess.”

Greg kept sliding under the table, serenaded by a cackling the blackest of witches would have envied.

“Your proof is slithering away.”

“Like the serpent he is… Gregory! Cease your cowardly retreat!”

“No.”

“He refuses to lie for you, how telling. I knew your ridiculous boasting was mere grandiosity.”

“Untrue! I have incalculable, _immeasurable_ , skill in the bedroom arts! I could gather testimony from a legion of lovers on that score.”

“How convenient the one actually on hand will not stand in support of your claims. I despise lies, Mycroft, but I despise sloppy ones all the more.”

Mycroft had a rebuttal for that but Greg had now fully slithered out of sight and made his exit from the kitchen, scarcely catching a relieved breath before a powerful grip pulled him fully vertical and down the corridor a ways out of earshot of the battle of the titans.

“Why didn’t you make her leave, you useless bartender?”

Rudy had come out of hiding. And was sporting exactly the right mix of terror and vexation on his face, in Greg’s opinion, for the situation that was his mother.

“You don’t pay me enough, sir, to risk my life. Not nearly enough. Besides, what did you expect me to do? Bundle her up like a sack of trash and hurl her in the bin?”

“Yes! Or anything equally helpful. Go back in there and smile. Show a bit of sparkle. Turn on the charm.”

“You want me to seduce your mother?”

“Why not? The older ladies appreciate a wink and smile from a handsome, younger lad.”

“Why do I suspect she’d actually beat me to death with her teaspoon if I tried that.”

“She has a spoon? We need a new plan.”

“Feel free to craft one, sir. I’m leaving.”

“Coward.”

“You’re not the first one to say that tonight and I’m ok with it.”

Greg started to walk… run… away, but found his collar still held fast.

“Gregory Lestrade! You are a…”

“Rudolph! I hear you – make yourself present.”

“Shit! This is on you, Greg.”

“Me! I was minding my own business when…”

‘Now you’re going to help me mind mine… come on.”

Greg had no idea how Rudy’s arm had enough strength to drag him like a doll back to the kitchen, but he suspected the man would hold his own in any of the nastier bar fights he’d experienced. And Rudy would probably be the one that started them.

“You called, Mother dearest?”

“Pfft. And hoping that doll you are dragging will divide my attention so you do not receive a full measure of derision for being a thoroughly disagreeable son and host.”

“He wanted me to seduce you – hit him with your spoon!”

“Oh. Well, fair play to you, Rudolph. I would never have credited you with that bold a plan.”

Mycroft was not on board with the bold plan.

“Uncle! How dare you barter Gregory’s sexual favors to avoid Grandmama’s talons – he is _my_ paramour!”

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it yourself, you pompous twat of a prick nephew.”

“I am not pompous!”

“And I’m not a… wait. What _precisely_ is a paramour?”

For someone who had birthed two children, Grandmama’s tolerance of squalling infants was exceptionally low. And no infants squalled more ridiculously than members of her family. And their hangers-on.

“I blame you for him, Rudolph. Mycroft is cut from far too much of your cloth for my liking.”

“Me? _That_ , Mummy, is the fruit of your precious Jamesy Wamesy’s loins.”

“The wearing of fruit upon one’s loins is entirely a thing I can imagine you doing, Rudolph, so your attempt at besmirching your brother is a rather flaccid one. Besides… you were always so… close… to James’s wife. One has to wonder…”

“The only thing I wonder, Mother, is why you haven’t been put in a care home. Oh, I forgot. They don’t accept vampires. A bit too free with the biting and bloodsucking, I wager…”

“And how dare you insinuate Uncle is my father! Look at how he dresses!”

“Given you are both garish vagabonds, Mycroft, you merely are championing my cause.”

Another firm grip on his collar did little to shock Greg because his shock saturation point had been exceeded for the night, so he pliantly allowed himself to be, once again, doll-dragged out of the kitchen, and obeyed immediately when he was told to run for his life. As Mrs. Hudson watched him race away as if his shapely arse was on fire, she shook her head at the completely expected chaos that accompanied the arrival of the Holmes family matriarch. Who was a dear friend and had been since these old bones had started working for Rudy, but the old girl did relish her drama. Which made them very well matched in that sense…

“How am I supposed to get anything done with all of his noise?”

“Martha! Thank heavens. I am besieged by nattering tramps and utterly dying for a cup of tea. Where is that Gregory boy? He’s rather good at it.”

“Poor thing was exhausted from having to keep company with _that_ one all they day long and went home for some well-deserved rest. I’ll make you nice cuppa and we can have a bite of cake with it, too. Neither one of these rapscallions offered you even a morsel, did they?”

“Nary a crumb.”

“For shame.”

“Something of which _they_ have nary a crumb.”

The mutual tut-tutting may or may not have been a dismissal signal, however, Rudy and Mycroft decided they didn’t care and beat a hasty retreat, pointed ignoring the elderly female laughter that followed in their wake.

“I blame you for this, Uncle.”

“Of course you do. It’s your signature move.”

“Funny. And where is Gregory?”

“Safely away from this madhouse, most likely.”

“Evil. Positively evil.”

“Smart, I’d say. Nobody should have to suffer Mother without proper preparation. Lad’s lucky his hair didn’t fall out from the stress.”

“That would be catastrophic. Gregory’s hair is exquisite.”

“It wouldn’t be if he was carrying it home in a sack.”

“Hmmmm….”

“What’s that for? I know you aren’t contemplating shaving him bald, so…”

“None of your business.”

“It’s very much my business if my bartender arrives for work one day bald as a baby. Do you have any idea how long a percentage of the patrons linger because they enjoy gazing at his ridiculous self?”

“Gregory is not a commodity to broker. But… yes, his impact on the club’s profits is delightful.”

“I sincerely hope he’s here a LONG time because can you imagine how delicious he’ll look when he’s my age? I bet he goes silver early. And it _will_ be silver, too. Not tired, ghastly grey. Silver foxes are to die for…”

“Stop lusting after Gregory!”

“I’m not lusting. I’m simply speaking the truth.”

“Oh very well. You have a point. He will be scandalously handsome in his middle years.”

“And a scandalously handsome bartender, no matter the age, is good for business. Also, of course, good for someone’s love life. The identity of the someone, of course, is subject to discovery.”

“Oh ha ha. Is that a clumsy and transparent attempt to learn how went my day with Gregory?”

“Basically, yes. I wasn’t able to make any assessments when you returned due to circumstances beyond my control.”

“Hiding from Grandmama is wholly something you can control, you contemptible poltroon.”

“Wrong. It’s an involuntary reflex honed by years of suffering her wretchedness. Couldn’t stop myself if I tried. Which I have no urge to do. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had less of an urge to do anything in my life than that. Perhaps sever my carotid artery with a piece of broken glass dipped in plague, but that might even be more desirable a thing than being in her presence.”

“I am leaving.”

“No, you’re not, because you haven’t told me about your day.”

“It was fine.”

“Fine is what you say when things were bland, disappointing and hope the other person doesn’t think differently so they ring you up for another go. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Mycroft couldn’t even pretend to it to cut short the conversation. The day had been glorious.

“Very well…. it was an enjoyable day for both Gregory and myself. I had a… I was going to say a nicer time than I expected, but that is not exactly the case. I had anticipated delighting in Gregory’s company, but worried, perhaps, that there would, on my part, be some degree of discomfort given…”

‘You’ve never really done anything like that before?”

“That is a fair description, yes. However, that was the polar opposite of the situation and we were to end our time together with a glass of wine and bit of relaxation before the kitchen became Ground Zero for Grandmama’s nuclear blast.”

“Hence the need to develop the hiding instinct and the sources to notify you when she’s on premises. Regardless… I’m happy for you, Mycroft. Truly happy that your day went well. A first date can be awkward but it sounds as if you both navigated the possible pitfalls nicely. Any ideas for Date #2?”

“A few, actually. I will discuss them with Gregory to see what he would prefer.”

“Excellent. Better know from the outset that what you’ll do is something they’ll like. I’ll leave you to it, then. There’s little doubt Mother will come hunting for me once she’s had her tea and gossip with Martha and I’d rather be impossible to find. If you need me, I’ll be in Belgium.”

“We have Lib Dems tomorrow night and if you think for one moment I am managing them alone, you are more insane than I previously imagined.”

“Shit. Shitty shit shit. Forgot about that. At least they drink like fishes. I suppose I can hide in London as well as Belgium. I won’t like it, though. I’m rather in the mood for moules frites.”

“Once you bribe chef to return to his kitchen, perhaps he can prepare it for you.”

“No bribes necessary! He’ll be here at sunrise to see what Mother has wrought in his beloved kitchen. She’ll give him things to find, too, to make him loony. Moves things around, swaps sugar with salt, leaves him rude notes. I think he enjoys those actually, filthy bugger, but that’s beside the point.”

‘For the sake of my mental health, I am content never to have known this and wish I did not know it now. Goodbye, Uncle. You are a foul example of a human being and because I am unlucky, not even the devil will take you no matter the size of bribe or gift of a rude note to tickle his fancy.”

Rudy’s heart swelled with pride watching Mycroft saunter away with almost a 75% score on his panache ledger. The boy still needed to master the subtleties such as the quick, yet contemptuous, up-and-down glance or that particular purse of the lips that could be a held-back grin or catching a bad smell, but he was improving! However… the fingers now had to be crossed he wouldn’t backslide in other ways. That bottle of Balvenie he just snatched from behind the bar wasn’t his nephew’s favorite, but this garish old vagabond knew someone who would appreciate it a very great deal…

__________

“Just fucking answer the door, you knob!”

“I refuse.”

“Dammit, Sherlock, I’m taking a piss!”

“How is that relevant.”

“Arrrgggghhh!”

Greg quickly zipped up and rubbed his hands on his jeans before racing out to see which of his drunk friends was disturbing the peace by banging on his door.

“Mycroft! What… I didn’t know you knew where I lived.”

“I… wish I didn’t. This is rather a distressing building, Gregory. There are… toughs lurking about.”

“You were surrounded by toughs at the club where I met you.”

“They were not lurking.”

“Fair enough. Come in…”

“Oh no. A sea lion has become confused and lurched its way into the city. Given Lestrade’s flat reeks much like a midden of discarded fish, perhaps I should not be surprised.”

“Ah, Sherlock. I have a gift for you.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to leave. Here is £20.”

“Do not disturb my _Serratia marcescens_ experiment.”

Greg had to admire the way Sherlock leapt off the sofa, grabbed the banknote from Mycroft’s fingers with one hand, his scarf and jacket with the other and was out the door in the blink of an eye. It was ballet, really.

“Good. Now we might have a bit of peace and quiet, something… I am here to apologize, Gregory. Grandmama is a horrible creature and, further, draws out the worst in Uncle.”

Smirking at the fact Mycroft left himself out of that familial castigation, Greg motioned him over to take Sherlock’s seat on the sofa while he found two clean glasses for whatever Mycroft was drawing out of his jacket.

“And, unfortunately, she is apt to pay me a visit specifically to enumerate my failings and deride my living space, so I chose to make that a harder task for her to accomplish. Not that the suspicious individuals skulking about outside would give her pause. In a trice she would have them by the ear and making them weep with her opinion of their personal deportment and amateurish skulking skills.”

“Ooh… having your gran or mum pop in to see your flat… that never goes well. Definitely something best endured by not being there.”

Wishing he’d found better glasses when he saw what Mycroft had brought to drown their sorrows, Greg took a seat and paused a moment to look at Mycroft’s face. It was… normal. As if the usual façade Mycroft wore like a second skin had melted away. He was truly beautiful this way…

“Thus my rather impolite imposition on your time. I simply had not the energy to endure further of her nonsense. I almost asked to accompany Uncle to Belgium, for pity’s sake.”

“Rudy’s going to Belgium?”

“I persuaded him against the idea, but if Grandmama extends her visit… I shall write you, Gregory. Each and every day.”

Greg snorted into his first sip of fine Scotch then giggled at both the drop at the end of his nose and something he admired about Mycroft – his sense of humor. When he wasn’t trying for innuendo, Mycroft had a stellar sense of humor and… it felt good to laugh with the person you were seeing. If they were officially seeing each other, that is. It was a bit up in the air at the moment, but slowly seemed to be descending back to Earth in a way he was appreciating a great deal.

“I hope so! It’s the least you could do, because I have little doubt that not only would she come after me as a handy target, she’d be on Sherlock’s arse and he’d hide here even though he’ll have his own tidy flat by tomorrow.”

“Oh, most certainly. To both your predictions. It shall pain me to leave you undefended but less than if it was me receiving her brand of razor-edged disdain.”

Laughing again, Greg finally had a sip of his Scotch and sighed with pleasure.

“Leave me a bottle or two of this and all will be forgiven.”

“Do not sell yourself so cheaply, Gregory.”

“Ok, then also leave a person-sized rat trap to set out for Sherlock.”

“Much better. I shall browse the Inquisition catalog to see what they have in stock.”

“Yes! I’ll actually have bread, milk and tea all to myself and not an assortment of empty containers when I stumble into the kitchen to start my day. That being said… Sherlock claims he’s alright to fund his own living… that’s true, right? He’s not going to be skipping meals to make rent for that not-cheap flat.”

“Unfortunately, he _is_ correct. And I say unfortunately only in that his funds are not earned and, as such, he has little understanding of or respect for the value of money. My family indulges him terribly but, I admit, his singular nature makes him particularly unsuited for nearly every form of employment. He did not manage even a week working for Uncle, either in the bar, the club, the kitchen or in a secretarial capacity and Uncle has a shameful degree of tolerance for Sherlock’s shenanigans.”

“He’ll figure things out eventually. Sherlock, that is, not Rudy. Took me awhile, but I got there in time.”

“Oh? I thought you had been on this path for… since your youth.”

“And that’s why I was off-footed. It seemed, at times, like it was something I was expected to do, though that wasn’t the case at all. I love working a bar, but I would stop, now and again, and wonder if I loved it because I really didn’t know anything else.”

“What did you do?”

“Took other jobs. Looked into trades. Finally settled the doubts and worries. I _can_ do other things, and do them well, too, but I’m doing what I _want_ to do and that’s a far better thing. Sherlock will go through his own process, work through matters in his own way and time.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I don’t care. I’ve got my rat trap.”

Mycroft laughed and felt something settle a little more deeply inside him. Gregory was very different from him and in many, many ways, so how did time with him feel blissfully comfortable? And, while comfortable could become boring, this lacked that single-note feel that led to predictability and tedium. This was… wonderful. Or it would be if someone wasn’t knocking on Gregory’s door.

“Huh? This is certainly the most visitors I’ve had in a bit. Guard the Scotch. It’s probably one of my mates.”

Mycroft nestled the bottle back into his jacket like it was a packet of top-secret documents and drained both of their glasses in two swallows.

“Uhhhh… Mycroft?”

The two swallows betrayed Mycroft utterly as he started choking when he saw the figure standing in the doorway.

“F… Father? What in the name of Dionysus are you doing here?

“It is your mother’s cards night. We are hosting this month.”

“And?”

“They are rather loud.”

“Your house is the size of Buckingham Palace. You do not have to be near the maelstrom. Go home.”

“No. I was going to pass the time at the bar, but Rudy phoned to swear at me, so I assume Mother is present.”

“You can while away the hours in my flat.”

“No. I want to go to the pictures.”

“This is not the 1950’s. Nobody says ‘the pictures’ anymore. And that still does not explain your presence.”

“I don’t want to go alone.”

Mycroft gaped at his father, then turned the gape to Greg who had no idea how one was supposed to respond to a gape.

“What were you hoping to see, sir?”

“Given my haste I haven’t researched the matter. I will decide when I arrive.”

Greg’s mental calculus lasted a full four seconds before he circled the answer on his paper and handed it in to be marked.

“Alright… let me change my shirt.”

“Gregory! You cannot mean to accompany father to the cinema.”

“No, I don’t. _We_ mean to accompany your father to the cinema. Can’t have him wandering the streets with those toughs lurking about.”

“Is that common? I _did_ see rather a few milling about in the shadows.”

“There, Mycroft. Toughs milling about… time for your good deed of the year.”

Mycroft’s gape intensified, but it morphed into an exasperated huff as he withdrew the Scotch bottle and set it on Greg’s sofa table.

“Oh, very well. But you, Father, are purchasing the tickets and I must approve the film choice.”

“Only if it is a fun film.”

“We are not watching animated drivel as much as you attempt to harangue me into it.”

“Not all fun films are animated. I will agree to comedy or science fiction. Or a combination of both.”

“Your taste in films remains deplorable.”

“I disagree.”

Greg wondered if either of them realized they had started walking and grinned as he decided a jacket would cover his rumpled shirt and quickly locked the door to follow after them. There didn’t appear to exist a boring person in the entire Holmes family and he was absolutely thrilled for it. Despite the occasional pain and agony, it seemed he’d be seeing a lot of them and there was something to be said for a colorful cast of characters in one’s life. That these colors were shockingly neon in nature and pulsated with an intense, eye-searing rhythm made things all the better…


	14. Chapter 14

Sneaking in through the back door of the bar might be considered cowardly by some, but Greg had already decided cowardice was strategic when dealing with the Holmes family so felt no shame sliding in like a ninja and continuing to ninja his way along to the staff room to prepare for his shift.

“There’s my favorite bartender!”

Out-ninjaed by Rudy!

“For the last time, sir, I am not going to seduce your mother.”

“Oh that. I’ve forgotten all about it. Not really, though, so if you change your mind I can very much make it worth your while.”

“Lovely.”

“I am! Happy you noticed. And my loveliness is here to check that you remain in one piece after yesterday’s protracted debacle. Mycroft and Mother can rip one’s brain in twain on their own but, operating in conjunction, they’ll take your head right off your broad and manly shoulders.”

Rudy, like Mycroft, Greg noticed, helpfully omitted himself from problematic lists when the mood struck. The mood struck a lot.

“It was a long day, that’s for certain. But, we got to watch a great film with Mycroft’s dad and that was relaxing. Good way to end the night.”

“James? Oh no… how cartoony was it?”

“Not a single rascally rabbit to be seen! Good science fiction thing with lots of space lasers and aliens and the like. Mycroft was appalled.”

“Which made it all the more fun, I have little doubt. Now you know the ugly truth… one of the countless ugly truths… about my brother. His taste in entertainment is soul destroying. Given he is one of the most tedious men in existence, his passion for the ridiculous in books, films, etc. is both without measure or explanation.”

“That’s Mycroft’s opinion, too, but I think you’re both daft. It was fun! Got to see a film, have a few snacks, chat for a bit afterwards… not at all the worst way to end the night. I think Mycroft was particularly peevish, though, because he’d hoped for a quiet drink and that didn’t happen, especially since I said I was headed straight to bed after the film, but there’s another day for that. Not that it reduced the peevishness one bit, of course, since Mycroft seems to have a difficult time understanding postponing desired activities.”

Well spotted, Greg old sport…

“Oh, he does. I think he’s doing better about it lately, though.”

Take the bait, Greg…

“I think so, too. Better than when I first met him. At least it seems that way. I haven’t known him long enough to say for certain.”

“I’ve known him since he was born and can act as witness. You should talk to Alicia, though. She’s his longest-term friend and can provide some insights. And give legal advice. It’s truly wonderful since you can pay her in alcohol, at least if you have access to the top brands. Which I do.”

“I can pay her in cheap beer and the remnants of the Balvenie Mycroft left in my flat. Oh! And whatever take-away Sherlock has eaten or made an experiment of yet.”

“Give it a try. In any case, we’ve got an event we’re hosting tonight and, as with most, it’ll likely spill over into the bar, so prepare for a large and steady crowd.”

“Yes, sir. Any other surprises lying in wait?”

“Can’t think of any, but that’s the damnable thing about surprises. Mother won’t be here, if that’s a concern. Lyn and James are taking her to the theatre tonight, so there’s one blessing for the us. She adores you, in case you were wondering. Of course, you’d never know it and it certainly won’t ever feel like it, but she only sniffed when I asked about you and that’s the most rousing endorsement the miserable old baggage can offer. Puts you leagues away from the rest of us, so well done you!”

“That’s good to hear. I’d hate to reflect poorly on the bar.”

“There’s absolutely no way you could reflect poorly on the bar since she thinks the bar reflects poorly on the Earth itself. It does mean, though, you won’t get any more grief than any of us and may actually see less of it. You _will_ see some, because you, as has been formally announced, are Mycroft’s paramour, so welcome to the family.”

“I’m going to kill him for that.”

“Can I watch?”

“No.”

“You’re no fun. Speaking of fun, get your kit on and go out there to make money for me. I find money flowing in my direction a _great_ deal of fun.”

“Since the flowing makes money for me, too, so do I. Will it be an especially late night, do you think?”

“Possibly. Standard lingering-long pay applies and whatever you can steal from the clueless drunks when you’re trying to get them out the door at closing.”

“Yes! I’ll get some honey on my fingers so they’ll be particularly sticky.”

Greg got a supportive slap on his shoulder before Rudy left and used the moment after to reflect on how nice it was to be interrogated by someone who did it in such a jolly fashion. Or in such an unobtrusive fashion, like Mycroft’s dad. He couldn’t blame them, though. As much as they might try and deny it, they were fiercely protective of and devoted to their little Mycroft, and little Sherlock. Anything and anyone in their sphere was going to come under scrutiny. For genuinely insane individuals, they had a remarkable capacity for caring and showed it freely in their own unique ways.

Now, he just had to fathom out _exactly_ what was a paramour so the parameters of this label were clear. There was little chance they’d be to his immediate advantage, but at least he’d know where he stood. Given the situation with Mycroft, that was always an enormously helpful thing…

__________

“You, Greg, are a bastard.”

“John! I already know that, so tell me something I don’t. Along with what you’ll have to drink.”

“Pint of lager, something expensive, and put it on Sherlock’s tab. The bastard.”

“That’s two bastards you know. Ever wonder what’s so wrong and foul with you that you attract bastards like flies?”

“No and fuck you.”

Greg pulled John’s pint and grinned at the telltale signs of a night with little sleep.

“You look terrible. Let me guess… Sherlock.”

“The bastard barges into my flat, waves £20 in my face and demands curry. Then proceeds to leap onto my sofa, complain about it being too small and lumpy before commandeering one of my anatomy texts while shouting at me about why I haven’t placed our curry order yet.”

“Well… he did pay for it, so I suppose a bit of shouting was deserved.”

“I hate you as much as him.”

“At least I don’t keep you up into the wee hours. How much sex _did_ you have and how hot was it?”

“Funny. Sherlock decided my preparedness for an upcoming exam was not up to standard and his help was necessary for proper mastery of the material. I _will_ admit, in the spirit of fairness, I haven’t had that intense a study session in a very long time and it was actually extremely helpful, but… he needs no sleep! Bloody bastard doesn’t need any sleep at all and thinks anyone who does is verfifying the utter weakness of 99.9% of the human race and, hence, its ultimate downfall.”

“Then a little curry and lost sleep is a small price to pay. I’ve heard how difficult it can be in medical school.”

“And none of it a lie, either.”

“You know… it would probably be a useful thing to have someone reliably on hand to help you revise for your exams.”

“I know a few people I meet with on occasion for that, actually.”

“I mean someone closer to home.”

“No one I know lives particularly close to me. No one studying medicine, that is.”

John Watson was absolutely thick.

“Let me give you a hint. His name rhymes with Sherlock Holmes.”

“His new flat is even further from mine that the one he was evicted from!”

John was thick as _mince_.

“Sherlock’s told me about your horrid flat. Small, boring area, uninspiring… why not move into something large, in a nice area, with lots of light and a very lively flatmate?”

“Why not? For the very good reason I don’t know any available flats like that.”

What’s thicker than mince? A brick? That sounded right.

“You’re thick as a brick.”

“Is it insult John day today? Did the government make an announcement I missed? Am I getting compensated for this service to the people of Great Britain? I bloody well hope so.”

“You could have exam help, companionship, a spacious and comfortable flat and whatever else might arise by just taking the hints Sherlock’s been dropping like bombs and moving in with him.”

“WHAT!”

“You think on that a moment while I tend to paying customers.”

Greg continued with the drink orders he’d received by the time-tested ‘hold up the empty glass and smile when the bartender nods in understanding’ maneuver and started delivering those he finished after one last smirk at John.

Who was fuming at Greg’s stupid words. Stupid and, frankly, delusional! Move in with Sherlock? That was daft. The daftest of ideas in the history of thought. First, Sherlock hadn’t offered and…

Ok, maybe Sherlock _had_ said a few vague things about how half the rent there wasn’t much more than what he was currently paying for the mouse hole he lived in now, but that was just… chatting economics.

Which Sherlock didn’t do.

Wait… Sherlock’s brain was like a runaway lorry, at times, so there was no predicting what might get sideswiped and thrown onto the conversational roadway. And, fine, yes, there was the occasional mention of how he was irritated that travel time had to be factored into whatever they wanted to do because this poor medical student didn’t live near anything anyone would _want_ to do or any decent restaurants or cafes. Everyone complained about that, though. Nothing… suspicious there.

Except that Sherlock didn’t care about what most of humanity considered fun and certainly didn’t care about food. Except when they were together. Even then, it was mostly a situation of Sherlock watching while he ate. Which, given it was Sherlock, was a strangely considerate act since he didn’t _have_ to suggest stopping what they were doing to eat.

_Friends_ did that, though. Were considerate to each other. But… Sherlock wasn’t considerate to anyone else, per se, though his prickly exterior actually hid a very warm heart. He simply showed more of that warm heart to John H. Watson than other people.

Which was not suspicious! They were mates. Friends. That’s all, really. Maybe… maybe!... if pressed he might say they skirted the area of very casual… association that wasn’t entirely friendly… but only in the broadest and most ignorable sense.

But… what if he was the only one doing the ignoring.

“That one went down your neck fast.”

“Shut it, Greg.”

“Greg’s tits aren’t as nice as mine.”

John snapped out of his reverie and tried not to look like the idiot he felt while Alicia grinned merrily at him.

“Sorry. I was distracted.”

“I could tell. Thought about pickpocketing you, but I haven’t been practicing and it would have been shameful to get caught by a mark as easy as you.”

“Isn’t that a violation of some ethical code for you lot?”

“Probably, but who cares. The only real rule, as you know, is don’t get caught, which is why the world is such a horrible, miserable place at times. Anyway, can I get you another of those?”

John glanced at his empty pint glass, which he had no memory of emptying, and nodded.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Thank Mycroft, because he’s paying. He actually phoned this morning to, once again, determine the possibility of having his entire family committed to a mental institution. It might have taken only thirty seconds to tell him to bugger off, but thirty seconds of my time is easily worth a couple of drinks.”

Alicia gave Greg a wave and a smile, marveling again at just how tasty one person could look and that Mycroft Holmes, of all people, was savoring that tastiness in all its delectable forms. The berk didn’t deserve that much grace in this world but, as stated, the world was a horrible, miserable place and the horrible, miserable people often came out well, all things considered.

“Ms. Smallwood, good of you to grace our fine establishment. What can I serve you tonight?”

“John wants another of whatever he’s having and I’ll have another of your brilliant martinis.”

“Absolut again?”

“Absolutely! Even if I didn’t want that I’d still say it because it’s fun.”

John shook his head as Greg grinned and was simply content that the illustrious and very nosy Alicia Smallwood hadn’t heard the first part of his and Greg’s conversation.

“So, John… I hear Sherlock’s moving into his new flat today and…”

“I’m _not_ his lover!”

That several patrons turned to look, some with a flash of pity in their eyes, informed John that he had been a touch loud.

“Ok, having established that you’re not his lover now but it’s at the forefront of your mind, indicating that you’re giving it serious thought… just do it. I am more than tired of watching you two dance around each other like some birds on a nature programme.”

“Nobody is dancing and I’m not moving in with him.”

“You should. The financial benefits are good and it’s a better area than the slum you live in now. Besides, you spend most of your free time together, so why not do it in one place?”

“There’s lots to be said for having your own living space, you know.”

“I do and that’s also why I’m recommending you take the flat. There are two bedrooms, so you can space out when needed. If you’re petrified that people will think you’re having it on with him, the scenario is really a stellar example of what a flat share would entail and you can keep things as friendly or more-than-friendly as you please.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Not really, but it’s not my place to chide you for failing to capitalize on a tremendous opportunity, even though I think you’re letting your panic over… whatever is going on in your twisty brain… keep you from making a smart decision. Oh look, drinks!”

Greg dropped one lager and one martini in front of the pair, made a smart bow, then got back to other customers. He’d overheard enough of their conversation not to poke his nose into it. Alicia was very effectively continuing his work of nudging John towards the decision he wanted to make but was, for some reason, reluctant to do. Even Mr. Holmes mentioned it last night! He was surprised that John wasn’t moving in with Sherlock since ‘pining seems rather nonsensical for the modern age.’ If John genuinely wasn’t interested it would be one matter, but this thing he had going on with Sherlock wasn’t new, wasn’t dying off and life was short even if you were young and just getting your toes wet with it.

The fact that he just sounded like an old man would never be mentioned outside the confines of his thick, empty skull. Besides…

“Gregory! I was fearful you might flee London after the true horror that was last night.”

Hello, Mycroft.

“No fleeing, thank you very much. I had a lot of fun, actually. Not so much being a chess piece in the family game with your grandmother, but I enjoyed our film with your dad. You did, too, so don’t even think about lying about it.”

“I most certainly did not.”

“You did the thinking. I warned you, didn’t I?”

Mycroft actually looked a little fearful at Greg’s suddenly serious tone, then rolled his eyes as Greg drew out a cherry and ate it with all due sound and fury.

“And you don’t get one.”

“You are a child. A favored child, but a child nonetheless.”

“Your uncle said that, too. Your grandmother adores me. His words! I doubt she’s the type to make biscuits and knit sweaters, but I’ll take whatever benefits I can gain from my preferred status.”

Mycroft glared as Greg stepped away to deliver a drinks order to a waiting server but the glare quickly softened to a fond smile when Greg’s back was turned. It _had_ been an enjoyable evening, Father’s nonsense notwithstanding. Gregory was… fun. And, though few would have marked the fact, Father believed it, also. That, ultimately, did not affect his own perceptions, however… it was a comforting acknowledgement. Almost as comforting as snatching his own cherry to hold between his teeth and squeeze as Greg strolled by towards the other end of the bar.

“You’re the mirror image of your father, Mycroft.”

“You are the mirror image of your father, as well, Alicia.”

“To my eternal regret. Anyway, you’re here late. Late-ish.”

“As you know, Sherlock moved into his new flat today and…”

“I’ll think about it, alright!”

Mycroft and Alicia stared at John who wondered when his mouth became connected to someone else’s brain but refused to admit his dilemma for fear of looking any loonier than he already did.

“I… see. Thank you, John. I am always one to encourage thought as a matter of course, regardless of topic. In any case, Alicia…”

Mycroft had no idea why Alicia was grinning widely and making a thumb’s up gesture at Greg who returned it with equivalent glee but knew he could wrest the information out of one or both of them soon enough. Continuing on…

“… I promised Father I would ensure that Sherlock was properly ensconced in his new nest and did not perpetrate an offense within the first hour to see him hurled into the gutter. To my extreme surprise, I did not have to engage any of the hired ruffians I had on hand to quell anticipated misbehavior on Sherlock’s part.”

“Good! Though your brotherly devotion didn’t buy you any grace on the idiot front…”

Alicia nodded to the group that was coming into the bar, which was a precursor to several more that would arrive for the night’s function in the club.

“Joyful. The things I do for family…”

Mycroft stole another cherry and wiped his fingers before slapping on one of his routine fake smiles and striding over to greet his guests.

“The things he does for a very comfortable living, that is. Something to strive for, John. Very comfortable life that requires little effort to support it. “

“Mycroft expends the entirety of his effort hauling his inflated ego hither and yon.”

A wild Sherlock appears!

“I’d like to say you were tetched in the head, Sherlock, but you make a credible point. Look who’s here, John. It’s Sherlock. Isn’t that nice?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the rude gesture John gave Alicia, but hesitated inquiring about it aloud. Alicia Smallwood punched like a prizefighter.

“Want a drink, Sherlock? Alicia is buying.”

“Which means my brother is paying so, yes. I will have something expensive.”

“I mean to ask, Sherlock… any good pubs near your new flat?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again, since Alicia’s question was rewarded by a loud snort from John.

“I have no idea. I do not visit pubs. That is John’s specialty.”

“Of course it is. In that case, let me rephrase… any pubs near your new flat _John_ would enjoy?”

“I… I have taken little specific notice, but the general clientele of various businesses seems… respectable. Some feel that is a good thing.”

“A good thing… John, would you consider respectability a good thing for your local pub?”

The fact that Sherlock was looking at him awaiting an answer itched like a rash. A rash produced by the creeping mold _Aliciola smallwoodicus_ …

And… fuck it. The best way to deal with a creeping rash was to burn it out fast and forever.

“Sherlock, the reason Alicia is being an awkward and creepy rash on my flesh is because she’s convinced you want me to move in with you. Care to comment.”

“I do.”

“Go ahead.”

“I did.”

“You… wait.”

Alicia burst into laughter and waved at Greg, making a ‘bring another round’ motion and, for good measure, waved at Mycroft, too, who tried to set her hair on fire with his annoyance at being confused.

“Sherlock… are you serious? And… I’m not being cheeky here or anything. Do you want me to move in with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Alicia punched John in the arm but he never moved his eyes away from Sherlock’s.

“Because…”

Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock drew out a piece of paper and began to read.

“… one - the total living costs for you would be less than your current expenditures. Two – for 88% of your most-frequented locales, transit time is equal to or shorter compared to your current flat. Three – your flat would be considered incommodious by a hermit crab. Four - …”

“Yes! Yes, I understand.”

Maybe.

“You think it would be a convenient change for me to make.”

“It _would_ be a convenient change. The data is irrefutable.”

“I… it’s nice sometimes, though, to have my own space.”

“That has been factored into the analysis. There is significant space between the two bedrooms or each bedroom and the living area so as to create a… sense of solitude.”

“You only moved in today and you know that already?”

“Yes. Mycroft was bloviating about something or other and I sought sanctuary. My bedroom proved a worthy example of that.”

“Your bedroom… chosen already, have you?”

“The other is too far from the kitchen and, therefore, my experiments, to suit my purposes.”

“You are not doing your experiments in the kitchen.”

“Oh, but I am.”

“Wrong. Kitchens are for cooking and eating. Period.”

“And conducting experiments. Or storing supplies requiring refrigeration.”

“Like milk.”

“And enzyme suspensions.”

“Absolutely not. Knowing you, you’d have them in jam jars for a nasty surprise when I’m having breakfast.”

“Not a single enzyme suspension in which I have interest is the color of raspberries.”

“Today. In which you have interest _today_.”

“You cannot dictate my future experimental aspirations, John Watson.”

“I certainly can when they endanger my toast!”

Greg had kept half an ear on the animated discussion and shared a quick grin with Alicia, and another with Mycroft, who returned a bemused and somewhat suspicious half-smile that Greg found hilarious. Fortunately for the bar patrons, he was a shockingly handsome individual when his face was alight with laughter. Or so Mycroft, Alicia, Rudy thought as they paused a moment to admire the scenery.

“Sherlock, my beloved nephew… toast is sacred.”

“I find little surprise in the fact that you, Uncle, would invent a religion founded upon the crumbly base that is toast.”

“Our church is a fragrant one and welcomes diversity, as toast welcomes the panoply of jams, marmalade, honey, butter and oh so much more. In any case, happy to see you here and not on the pavement or in a prison cell. Still a resident at 221B Baker Street?”

“Why would I not be?”

“Pavement and prison cell – remember those?”

“Fool. But a wealthy one, so you may purchase my goodwill with a new toaster, a blender, a television and £100. John, what size television would you prefer? I find them ridiculous, however, you seem enamored of the drivel they broadcast.”

When a person reaches a crossroads, it’s always a harrowing, perilous time. Made all the worse by Sherlock standing there looking expectantly at you.

Or… more than expectantly. Hopeful. With some genuine fear tinging that hope a bit redder than one usually imagined hope’s color to be. Using a haughty manner to cover something deeper and more personal was a typical Sherlock maneuver, so it didn’t fool John for a single instant. The very same John who currently was standing at an intersection in life where choices made were going to be impactful ones.

And, for once, the choice was an easy one to make.

“A big one. I’ll need to see where it’d go to be certain just how large, though.”

“Very well. Uncle ready your purse for shopping. John and I will survey the flat and present our list of demands when we are done. There shall be items added not mentioned now but I care neither about that nor your subsequent reaction. Now, where is my drink? Mycroft’s concubine is eternally slothful when it comes to providing me service.”

Rudy looked around bewilderedly and only part of that was performance art.

“First… what? Second… what?”

“I’ll explain things to you later, Rudy, but yes, have your wallet at the ready and smile through the pain. You’re not nearly as handsome when you grimace.”

Alicia gave Rudy a wink that conveyed very clearly she would provide a solicitor-quality brief on what the hell was going on and he should simply go along with things because it would be more fun that way and she knew very well he preferred fun and frolic to fuddled and dyspeptic any day of the week.

“I do value my handsome visage, so smiling it shall be! In fact… Greg is walking a nice round of drinks this way and I’ll add one for myself to help jolly things along. Just as soon as… oh good lord. What are those tables doing ordering pina coladas? Are they mental? We don’t have that much coconut anything out here. Back in a tick… Greg! I’m on it – fear not!”

Rudy dashed off to battle the great pina colada invasion while Greg set down drinks for John, Alicia and Sherlock.

“A nice whiskey for you, Sherlock, since you enjoyed the last one you had. Anything else?”

“Yes, your body.”

John’s choked spray of lager was quickly wiped from the bar, but the point stood.

“SHERLOCK!”

“ _I_ certainly am not helping you move your possessions to my flat. I have far more important matters to tend to, but I am willing to provide you with suitable labor for the task. Behold.”

Pointing to Greg with one hand, Sherlock sipped his whiskey with the other, stepping back when both Greg and Joh tried to snatch it away.

“If someone asks me nicely to lend a hand for something, I generally say yes. This leaves your request, Sherlock, to die screaming in the dust. Toodles!”

Greg intercepted Rudy carrying a holiday’s worth of coconut cream in his hands to get started on the two large tables worth of tropical delights. While squeezing in drinks to the rest of the bar who were, fortunately, drinking on the easy-order side of the coin tonight. It was more than possible to do all of that and smile merrily at Sherlock now and again, too. Which, right now, was an important element of his day.

“Nice, Sherlock. Seems I’m the one who’ll have to grovel and ask for help. At least I have a delivery van I can… borrow.”

Sherlock shrugged and took another sip of his whiskey but Alicia found the words far more interesting.

“That was a pregnant pause, John. Here’s some free advice – don’t do that in front of a solicitor.”

“It _will_ be borrowing! I’ll just detour now and again between deliveries to pick up non-floral items and deliver them to non-floral places.”

Which, now that John thought a moment, was a clear commitment to starting the move tomorrow. He said that to a solicitor, so it was sort-of legally binding. In addition to, of course, committing to make the move at all. He’d done a lot of committing in a short amount of time, hadn’t he… At least he was getting a big telly out of the deal.

“That’s just corrupt enough to be shady but not quite enough for me to earn a reward by handing you over to the police. Elegant! Once you’ve had a look about the place, let me know what you can use for a gift. It’s good luck to give a gift when people move into a new place.”

“£100.”

“No, Sherlock. Just no.”

“£200.”

“You tried. It failed, but well done you being consistent. John, let me know. And… yes! There’s my extremely important meeting arriving.”

John peered over and found he recognized everyone in the all-female party.

“Aren’t those your friends?”

“No. Those are my participants in a highly-critical and tax-friendly business meeting.”

“And you’re lecturing _me_ on corruption!”

“Instructing, John. You’re doing well so far, but there’s always room for improvement. Learn from a master, young apprentice.”

While Sherlock seemed to be trying to gain the still-elusive cash from either Mycroft or Rudy, John sipped the unchoked remnants of his lager and marveled how life could change course so quickly. But that seemed to be the case for more than him, too. Take Greg and Mycroft, for example. If you didn’t know the two you might never notice anything, but if you did then you saw something a bit different tonight. Something calmer, more assured, more… committed. Ha! He wasn’t the only one committing these days and it was nice to know the boat he was in had another passenger or two.

Yesterday’s motorcycle date must have gone well! Very well for this amount of shift in behavior. Mycroft being less of a pest, Greg not shooting glances Mycroft’s way when he wasn’t being pestered and wondering why… they were idiots, but at least it seemed their idiocy came in compatible forms.

“Oh look, James. It’s Sherlock and John. Isn’t that delightful!”

John looked over towards the familiar voice and smiled seeing Sherlock’s mother beaming at him. It almost compensated for the older, smaller woman at her side who wasn’t smiling At all.

“Hmph… that is Sherlock’s… friend? Expectedly disappointing.”

Oh no. At least Sherlock looked offended.

“Mummy! Take Grandmama away from John. Her evil cannot taint my life any further than it has. I will not allow it!”

Grandmama! He’d heard stories. None of them good. And most much, much worse.

“Uhhh… hello, ma’am? I’m John. But you probably know that. John Watson. Going to be a doctor! That’s not so terribly disappointing, right?”

John sat up straight in his chair because grandmothers always valued good posture. Maybe Greg had a comb or something for this hair. What was he thinking! Greg and a comb? Might as well expect Mycroft to have a chastity belt.

“A babbler. At least that marries well with Sherlock’s continuous, nonsensical chatter.”

He got an ‘at least!’ That always meant a shred of positive, even if the shred needed a microscope to be seen. Victory!

“MUMMY! REMOVE GRANDMAMA IMMEDIATELY!’

“I’m busy catching Greg’s attention, Sherlock dear, you do it, why don’t you?”

Sherlock glared at his grandmother who, and John had to admire this, glared back while smirking in the time-honored expression of ‘I double dare you.’ The old woman had spine. And looked ready to yank someone else’s out of their backs and beat her grandson into submission with it should it become necessary.

“Father – she is your mother. Do something.”

“I am seeing her with wine. That meets the definition of _something_.”

Sherlock snorted loudly and threw back his whiskey in a single swallow which necessitated John giving him several hard pats on the back when Sherlock learned how stupid a thing that was when one isn’t used to drinking hard liquor.

“Heh. And I wager that wasn’t even something with wind in its sails.”

All Sherlock could do was shake a finger-pointing fist at his grandmother but, as with all things, he did it with all due drama.

“Mother, would you prefer to sit at the bar or in the club? Or, I suppose at a table in here, which is rather a middle choice.”

John jumped before he was yanked from his chair to make way for the elderly woman who was a great deal more sprightly than she appeared.

“I prefer to sit here.”

“Yes, it is a much better option.”

Rudy walked towards the bar carrying a selection of paper umbrellas for the last tray of pina coladas and created a rainstorm of them when he tossed the lot at Greg and turned around to run back from whence he came.

“Rudolph! Present yourself!”

Walking backwards in a crowded bar was a skill few possessed, but Rudy was a man of many talents. One of which, also, was schooling his ‘goddamit fuck shit piss’ expression into something convincingly genial by the time he turned around to grin at his family.

“Mother, how wonderful to see you when I absolutely did not expect to see you since you’re not supposed to be here for any reason whatsoever.”

“Mother wanted wine before the theatre.”

“You’ve got wine at home, James. Loads of it. Good stuff, too. I should know, I supplied it.”

“This is friendlier.”

“Mother does not care about friendlier. The last friendly place she visited was Hell and that was just to chat with a few old friends and check her cottage is ready for when she moves in.”

“That is decidedly uncharitable.”

“Oh was that you, James? I thought I heard a different apron-tugging Mummy’s boy speaking, but I guess I was wrong.”

“I do not recall Mother ever owning an apron.”

Lyn passed the wine to her mother-in-law and stood watching the brothers bicker. Sherlock and Mycroft came by their natures honestly though, she liked to think, her own genes added a tidy bit of creativity to their silly little ways.

“James, Rudy is just trying to bait you. Rudy, don’t bait James. Poor man has to escort two ravishingly beautiful women to the theatre tonight and is terrified of all the men he’ll have to fight off to protect our honor. He’d have to fight off women, too, but we don’t tend to be so vulgar and combative when we’re trying to woo away a fair maiden from her current partner.”

“By the time James stopped polishing his spectacles and checking his shoes were properly tied, you’d be sold to the highest bidder and Mother would be drawn, quartered and enjoying her retirement cottage by the lava pit with her chums. Why don’t you go and bother Alicia? She likes that. Oh, and ask Sherlock about his new flat, Grandmama. It’s precisely as squalid and disreputable as you might imagine for him. Ta ta!”

“It is not disreputable! And John will tend to any issues of squalidness. It is part of his cohabitation agreement.”

The eruption of questions at that admission made Rudy rub his hands together in glee as he scurried away while, at the other end of the bar, Greg and Mycroft paused their conversation a moment to view the show.

“Your family is loony, Mycroft. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

“I cannot deny it, though I wish such were possible.”

“Does your gran visit often?”

“No… though she also does _not_ sit at the bar. Something is afoot, I fear, and it is not to my liking.”

“She’s not young… maybe she’s hoping to live in London? Be closer to family?”

“What a horrifying thought.”

“Your gran isn’t horrifying, she’s just feisty.”

“I will gladly transfer my family membership to you so you can endure her presence while I am blissfully freed of the burden.”

“Given I’ve had to endure it twice now and that may not change much in the future, I’d say I don’t come off better or worse in that deal. Nor do you.”

“Hellfire… you are correct. We are both damned and naught can change that fact.”

“At least we’re damned together.”

Mycroft startled slightly because… that sounded surprisingly lovely to his ears.

“That we are. And it is imperative to present a united front. Give no opportunity for the enemy to breach the battlements.”

“Drink after work to plan strategy?”

“Most assuredly.”

“It’s a date. Now… back to work…”

Mycroft surveyed the bar and found himself smiling.

“Yes, back to work. Uncle will be useless until Grandmama departs, so it shall be our charge to ensure matters run smoothly.”

“Easy enough. We’re amazing.”

“That we are. Our goal now is to see Uncle remunerates us properly for our talent and skill.”

“Does that mean press him for a pay rise?”

“It does.”

“We can plan that, too, after the bar closes. And we can do research to see who makes the best fish and chips, as well as chocolate tart, in London to bring with us to the negotiation meeting.”

“Yes… strike boldly and at his weakest points. An ally… how greatly I have longed for such a thing, Gregory.”

Greg grinned widely and finished the order he was preparing,

“We’re going to be unstoppable.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I ag… oh shit. Your grandmother is glaring at us.”

Mycroft started edging away from the bar, refusing to look in the direction of his family gaggle.

“I do believe I have matters in the club to attend.”

“So much for being an ally!”

“Do not hate me for my cowardice. I was raised, in large part, by Uncle.”

“You both have a lot to answer for.”

“Prepare a list. I will forward them to my solicitor.”

“She’s sitting over there.”

“Then you can send them directly her way. Much more efficient.”

“You’re paying tonight.”

“I left my wallet at home.”

“Steal Rudy’s.”

“Once again, our alliance is a productive and fruitful one.”

“Speaking of fruit, your dad is in the cherries.”

“Oh let him. I would have to venture near the cataclysm to issue chastisement and, as proved, I lack the necessary bravery.”

“But you expect me to do it when I deliver the next round, don’t you?”

“Never let it be said that I do not give you bountiful opportunities to take an active role in our alliance, as befits your exalted status.”


	15. Chapter 15

“Ok… ok. This is nice. This truly is nice.”

John didn’t need to look at Sherlock to know he was beaming with pride, sighing with relief and scowling with scorn since he would claim he already knew that and it was unintelligent of John to state the obvious. However, John didn’t care since it really _was_ a nice flat and, as Alicia had noted, had sufficient room and the right arrangement that two people could have time alone if they had a taste for it. 

There was also some very cozy space for when you _didn’t_ to spend time alone and there was someone there with you who didn’t want to be alone either.

“I think I’ll be comfortable here. Plenty of room for my stuff and that big telly we’re promised. Good area, too. Like people said. Not that I thought anyone was lying, but people view things differently. One person’s nice is another person’s boring. Or dangerous.”

That was babbling. Almost. Proto-babbling, which meant he had time to save himself.

“I’ll likely only need two runs to move my things, but I can’t say exactly when I’ll do them since I haven’t seen today’s delivery sheet. Is there another key I can use so you don’t have to hang about waiting?”

Sherlock fished into his pocket and drew out what looked to be a freshly cut set of keys.

“This opens the building door. This opens the door to the flat, though I rarely lock it.”

“That’s a great way to have everything you own stolen.”

“Not when Mrs. Turner is your landlady. She is… vituperative.”

“Ooh! I don’t know exactly what that means, but I know it’s not good. I’m still locking the door, though.”

“Do as you will. That set is yours. I have little doubt you will degrade it with some nonsensical key fob, but that is ultimately not my concern. What _is_ my concern, however, is your visiting the shops today and filling my list.”

Sherlock handed over a slightly-crumpled slip of paper that made John laugh.

“I agree that flatmates may share the shopping duties and I’m happy to do my part to keep house and home together but I’m not visiting four… five… shops for one list. Some of this I’d have to find a medical supply distributor to get. And there is nowhere I’m going to even set foot in that might sell preserved human brains. I don’t even think that’s legal. In fact, I’m going to say it’s absolutely not and enjoy a hearty pint of fuck you for entertaining the notion.”

“For someone pursuing a medical degree, you are a scurrilous enemy of science.”

“But he’s a lovely flower girl, as Henry Higgins can attest.”

John wondered, as he often did, if Rudy Holmes had a doppelganger who actually did the work at the club while the real person gadded about doing whatever he pleased. And where such a doppelganger might be found for a price gentle on a medical student’s purse.

“Uncle. This is a revolting surprise. Leave.”

“Sherlock. Fornicate with a cactus. No.”

“Fornicate?”

“We’re in the badlands.”

“What?”

“Enemy territory. Loose lips and all that.”

Sherlock stared dumbly at his Uncle, with John providing positive dumbfounded reinforcement until a tall, familiar figure strolled into the flat.

“Mummy. Uncle declared you the enemy. Trounce him!”

“Oh, I don’t think he meant me, dear.”

A small figure moved from behind Sherlock’s mother in exactly the manner one expected the Death Star to appear from behind a planet.

“Grandmama! I will not have you haunting my new flat like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Begone.”

“Pfft. Flat? The solitary confinement cell of a fetid penal colony is more the case. Suits you.”

John took a step to hide behind Sherlock, stretching himself upwards to reduce any lateral spillover into the sight line of the Bride of Emperor Palpatine. If she could do it, by damned, so could he.

“It does suit him, doesn’t it, Sybil. Messy, but with potential. Positively _brimming_ with potential.”

Sherlock suffered a motherly cheek pinch whereas John suffered a motherly wink thrown over Sherlock’s shoulder. That was a lot of suffering for one’s first day in a new home.

“Brimming with disappointment is more the truth. Maybe if it saw a broom or mop. Or a bomb. Why haven’t you cleaned yet, dreadful boy? Already made friends with the rats and dust mites? Which one is the lurker there behind you? Seems a might ratty to me.”

John grimaced and saw very clearly why Rudy viewed hiding as the supreme strategy when his mother came to call. Which didn’t explain why Rudy was here now, where she could also be found…

“I… didn’t wear my better clothes since Sherlock and I have a good bit of cleaning to do today, as you noted. We’re just moving in, you see, and it’s to be expected that things don’t look their best from the start. Have to shift things about, decide what goes where, it’s a big job but we’ll make short work of it once we get started.”

“A lurker and a prattler. Entirely unsurprising.”

“Oh, Syb… leave the boy alone. He’s not in your league.”

“Very true, however, there is little else here to entertain me, so he will have to do.”

On that cue, John grabbed Sherlock by the waist and began dragging him along towards the door like a portable concealment point until Sherlock’s indignant slapping away of hands won the day.

“John! I am not a lamp post!”

“Skinny as one, grandson. You need to fatten. Take instruction from Rudolph.”

Rudy smiled the smile that said the open bar had now been wholly removed from his mother’s future wake. The cold meat platter also was seriously endangered.

“And on that supportive note, Mother, I have delivered you, as demanded, to Sherlock’s new cave and, now, am leaving you here for his rat friends to eat. I’ll leave some antacid, also, for their inevitable heartburn.”

“You are not leaving yet.”

“Really? Seems my legs don’t speak the language of the Aged Crone people.”

“Uhhh… is this where I’m supposed to be?”

All heads turned to towards the voice, though one a bit more slowly… and smugly… than the others. In the doorway to 221B was a tall young man with tousled, sandy blonde hair and a thin scar running along one cheek. Looking alternately confused and unimpressed with his present situation.

“At least you’re not tardy. I cannot abide tardiness.”

“Ok.”

“You are certainly capable of a more robust response than that, young man.”

“Ok… ma’am.”

“Oh dear lord… your grandfather and I will be speaking about this.”

“Ok. Ma’am.”

“Pitiful. In any case, you may begin, along with Sherlock and the lurker, cleaning this hovel. Rudolph will also assist.”

“Fuck that with a cherry lolly!”

“Language, Rudolph! As I was saying, you will assist while Calynda and I assess the status of Sherlock’s necessities. Or, should I say, the necessities of polite society when maintaining a home. Not a family of pigs on a farm.”

With a glare towards Sherlock, then craning her head around him to glare at John, the matriarchal march towards the kitchen began with Rudy’s sputtering providing a disappointingly unrhythmic soundtrack.

“FIRST, Mother dear. No. Second… are you going to introduce us to this… oh god. You’ve bought a gigolo, haven’t you? That’s a waste of good cash. Isn’t it? I thought you’d dried up for that sort of thing ages ago.”

“Pfft. Idiot boy. For your information, Sebastian is here specifically to demonstrate his helpfulness. That will be a useful quality when he is working for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. He is in need of employment and you always need this or that lackey for tedious tasks. He can be your new chopper or stirrer or whatever Angelo needs doing, I suppose. Heavens knows the man teeters on the brink of complete culinary incompetence, so he should be grateful for even a meager bit of assistance.”

Sherlock and John scrutinized the new arrival who seemed roughly their age and fully as uncomfortable with things as they were at the moment.

“Oh, so I’m your new waif employment charity, am I? Finally you think I’m good for something.”

“Not even a complete dullard could fail at the task of putting a boy to menial work and handing him a bit of money at the end of the week. Look at that tadpole you have behind your bar. Twelve years old and scrubbing a bar top. This one may only be ten, but he can wave a knife about and carry sacks of potatoes from the greengrocer’s as well as anyone. The details are for you to sort out, Rudolph. After you ensure this… domicile… is made habitable.”

This march proceeded uninterrupted because rude gestures made towards a motherly back did little to break a person’s imperious stride.

“Evil old thing… Sherlock? What do you have for alcohol in your domicile?”

“It is nine in the morning.”

“And?”

“I have nothing alcoholic that is not also immediately toxic to consume.”

“Bollocks.”

“I got this.”

Sebastian reached into his inner jacket pocket and drew out a small bottle of cheap but steeply-potent whisky.

“That’s ghastly. Suits my mood perfectly. Alright, Sebastian, was it? Pass that around and John there can dart out for more. Knowing Medusa… I mean, Mother… she’ll lick surfaces to ensure they’re clean and take the hide off our arses with the same barbed tongue if matters aren’t up to her standard. Which they won’t be, so pad your bums with a bit of lead if you can find it, lads. It _may_ leave you with enough arse to make sitting something other than bone shattering.”

John sighed deeply and reminded himself that he chose to move from his somewhat safe-target distance for Holmes chaos much closer to the bull’s eye, so he had nobody to blame for today’s misery but himself. That did beg the question, though…

“Hi, Sebastian, was it? Good to meet you. I’m John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. It’s our flat you’re very kindly helping get sorted. Can I ask… you said your grandfather sent you here? Or something of the like. What’s going on with that? I take it he knows Sherlock’s grandmother…”

John waved off Rudy who was nodding approvingly because fuck him, but why did this Sebastian person look a little bewildered by the question?

“Well… yeah. They’re dating, after all.“

The walls shook from the constructive interference of the sound waves produced by Sherlock, John and Rudy yelling WHAT! in unison.

“Uhhhhh… yeah.”

Rudy dragged his brain back from the edge of the cliff… and it did _not_ want to be dragged because a quick death, not matter how agonizing, was better than contemplating the horror novel he had walked into… gave it a few hard slaps, told it to pull up it socks and get back to fucking work because this was important.

“Dating? Mother? _Mother_? Who in the _fuck_ would want to date her?”

“Grandad.”

“Fuckity duh, you daft boy. But why! Whyyyyyyyyyy…. is he blind? Insane? Lose a bet? He’s being blackmailed, isn’t he? Or a masochist. Tell me, Sebastian or it’ll go hard for you. I’ll have you doing nothing but scrubbing the stoop for the next three decades and earning a farthing a day like all the other members of your street urchin gang.”

“Dunno.”

“What is your surname?”

Rudy had to look around because that didn’t sound like his voice but he was fully prepared to concede he could have fractured so badly he spontaneously created a twin with a touch more baritone in his timbre than the original model. It was actually disappointing to find it was Sherlock behind the question.

“Huh? Oh. Moran.”

Sherlock and Rudy shared a look that John didn’t understand beyond it was a picture-perfect Holmes smirk.

“They seem to have heard of you, mate. Don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it’s something.”

“Uncle knows very well who are the Morans, John. Edward Moran, particularly.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows rose a bit but he shrugged before replying.

“Yeah, that’s my grandad.”

“And the owner of M’s coffee chain.”

“Yeah.”

John marked this second smirk between Sherlock and Rudy and felt a cold chill run down his spine. They were agreeing on something. That was one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Time to distract before the others saddled their mounts and rode into London.

“Well, that’s interesting! To me, at least. I pass one on my way to Uni and another one or two when I’m making deliveries… I work for a florist... and they seem to do good business. Never been in one but I’ll certainly give them a try now, though I’m more of a tea drinker by habit.”

John shot a glare at Sherlock, who had snorted at his speech, but didn’t know quite which part prompted the snort so more punchy action was postponed. For now.

“AND speaking of drinking, what say we make do with that paint thinner your brought and I don’t go out for more, which I’d have to pay for so bugger that with a shoe, then we can all go to the bar and participate in Rudy’s little guided tour. And drink on his tab. Have a nibble or two for lunch, also, since I am going to wager that there is nothing in the flat that’s nontoxic at the moment. I’ll phone work and confirm they only need me for the afternoon run. Rudy, you don’t mind hosting a few extra bodies for a bit, do you?”

“Oh no... not at all. In fact, I insist. Sebastian, dear urchin that you are, you shall have _two_ farthings for today and a bowl of gruel besides. It’s a celebration! The happy Diogenes Club family welcomes another member. What a delight.”

While John and Rudy nodded and rubbed their hands together, for two entirely different reasons, Sebastian sidled up to Sherlock and cocked his head in their direction.

“What’s all that for?”

“There is no fathoming it. Uncle is insane and John… is not insane, but often nonsensical and focused on insignificant details.”

“I still have a job, though, right?”

“Irrelevant.”

“I need the cash so, yeah, relevant.”

“Uncle is sufficiently ludicrous that any hound wandering in who licked clean a few pots and pans would be handed a wage envelope, patted on the head and given a promotion for not making Mrs. Hudson or Chef angry while on premises.”

“So, I still have the job?”

“Was I not clear?”

“No.”

Sherlock sighed but credited the look he was being given which showed far more intelligence behind the eyes than the flat tone and few words favored by this Sebastian might lead one to believe. A person who kept their true selves close to vest could be… interesting.

“Yes, you still have the job.”

“Ok. What do we need to do here?”

“As little as possible.”

“Ok.”

“Actually… one moment.”

Sherlock walked to the telephone and rang a familiar number.

“No…. I fail to see why you and John believe ‘fuck you’ to be an insult. The person best suited to that task _would_ be me as I am the most keenly aware of my… what? Oh, no I do not care that you were sleeping, Grendel. We require assistance situating John and you volunteered. That you are not already present demonstrates your slothful nature… How vulgar. I am informing Uncle both of your barbarism _and_ your slothfulness… What? No, you cannot for he is here with me so you have no chance of besmirching my name before I divulge your shame… Yes, that did rhyme… No, I take no pride from it because poetry is ridiculous… What?.. Yes, present yourself here and help with our endeavors… No, Fatcroft is not scheduled to be present for he, like you, is also a slugabed. And, also, simply a slug. Of the bloated variety… I refuse. If you want to beat an apology out of me you would have to make yourself physically present… I see. Very well, we will expect you shortly.”

Sherlock set down the phone and motioned for Sebastian to follow as he walked to the door, sliding behind John and Rudy who were still giggling about their upcoming schemes.

“Grendel is used to manual labor so he can assist the others with… whatever it is they deem important.”

“What are we doing?”

“My shopping. John’s refusal to do it is a black mark on his record he will have great difficulty erasing.”

“Ok. Got cash?”

Sherlock drew a wallet out of his pocket that certainly wasn’t his.

“Uncle does. I pickpocketed him as we left the flat.”

“Oh. Then we don’t need this one.”

Sebastian drew a wallet out of his pocket that certainly wasn’t his.

“A waste of time. John is poorer than a church mouse, though he approximates the size of one.”

“Ok.”

“But… return it with stealth. John hits… hard.”

Sebastian smiled in a way Sherlock found both intriguing and unsettling.

“Good.”

“Truly?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Very well. But if you challenge him to combat do not allow Uncle to discover that fact.”

“Why? He’ll sack me?”

“More he would establish a wagering syndicate and refuse to share the profits.”

“What a shit.”

“Hence my eternal agony.”


End file.
